


The Lost Kingdom of Erebor

by Twisted_Barbie



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Horror, M/M, Paranormal, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-07 15:55:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 27
Words: 54,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12236049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Barbie/pseuds/Twisted_Barbie
Summary: AU. The Lost Kingdom of Erebor is shrouded in myth, likened to the heavens and compared to Atlantis. Until an archaeological discovery unearths that which was lost and awakens the Mad King from his cursed eternal rest.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by The Mummy franchise, this is my first attempt at horror.

Bilbo Baggins held his fork above the apex of the mashed potato before carefully guiding it down into the mash and removing a portion. Instead of bringing it to his lips he moved his fork towards the Yorkshire pudding and used his knife to discard the mash from his fork. He then returned his fork once more to the mountain of mash and collected another portion and repeated the same action, and then again, and then once more until the green of a single pea became visible. His actions then changed as he carved into the mash around the stray pea, careful not to disturb it and stopped when he heard the deep rich laugh of his partner.

Lifting his head, Bilbo looked across the candlelit table and offered a timid smile. 

“Don’t mind me, finish your excavation.” Bard Bowman says in a thick Welsh accent while lifting a glass of red wine to his lips. Bilbo feels his cheeks burn with embarrassment but Bard’s lips are drawn up at the corner of his mouth and there is mirth in his brown eyes that glow tiger eye in the flickering candlelight. “Were you so underwhelmed by your find in Siberia?” Bard asks after taking a sip and swirls the wine in the glass before tilting it and checking the consistency. 

In regards to the question, Bilbo comes alive, tripping over his words having so much to say. Archaeology was a passion of his ever since he was a little boy and his parents took him to visit extended family in Northumberland. The Tooks were engaging and quite adventurous and since it was summer, they had shown them all the wonders of their hometown. Bilbo had thought Alnwick castle was the pinnacle of his holiday until he was taken to Bamburgh castle. It wasn’t so much the castle itself that had inspired him, rather it was what he had found there. 

His father, Bungo Baggins was something of an aviation buff and for him the onsite Armstrong and Aviation museum was a must-see. Bilbo had been a mother’s boy but his father’s enthusiasm had been infectious so he had followed him to the West Ward and came to an abrupt halt. There, before the windmill was a roped off area of land and people crouched in the dirt carefully digging. 

Bilbo had been enthralled and having lost sight of his father he approached the rope to get a better look. There weren’t many people digging, five or six at best but in that moment his life was changed forever when a tall lithe man with a long grey beard smoking a pipe approached him. His name was Dr Gandalf Grey a renowned yet humble archaeologist; he saw something in Bilbo that day that Bilbo still failed to see. He spoke about his work and Bilbo hung onto his every word simply in awe of it all. 

From then on, their trip to Bamburgh castle became an annual event. Bungo was happy to spend his day in the aviation museum while his mother was fond of the cakes in the café. He spent his time between looking at the artefacts that had been unearthed and watching archaeologists dig for more. Gandalf always made an effort to talk to him, a rare gift in a world where he was often overlooked. It instilled in him a sense of peace and belonging he had not felt outside of his family and he longed for more. 

It had become an obsession and his continued commitment endeared him to the team. Though it varied from year to year the core archaeologists were Dr Grey and a keen exchange student Thranduil Greenleaf. Under their guidance and tutelage, Bilbo had earned a degree in Archaeology and Ancient History and had made a name for himself as Dr Grey’s protégé. 

“…I’d estimate he was buried between 2,700 to 2,900 years ago placing him in the transition from the Bronze to the Iron age.” Bilbo continues, still enthused by his recent discovery. “He was laid on his back with his wrists crossed, a dagger in his right hand pointing up…” he animatedly gesticulates mimicking the position of the body. “And a knife in his left hand pointing down.” He glances at Bard and realises his enthusiasm has not been infectious as the brunet smiles politely. He coughs to cover his embarrassment and lowers his eyes. “The grave was well-preserved,” he continues in a monotone. “We found an axe and arrow heads nearby as well as jewellery and other items made of bronze.” 

“Quite the find then,” Bard comments and takes another sip. “Enough to write a manuscript,” he adds quickly and takes another drink. 

Bilbo takes a moment before commenting. Archaeology was his passion but literature was his lifelong ambition. Each new dig was another chapter and yet his book remained unwritten as he continued to search, finding that one story no one but he could tell. 

“Perhaps a chapter,” he offers without sincerity with his eyes adverted. He had associated his book with his retirement; a collection of his adventures worth reminiscing in his twilight years. Bard had always encouraged his literacy aspirations but lately his encouraging nudges have become more of a shove. It had become an unspoken contention between them as they left it to fester instead of discussing their opposing views. 

“Bilbo,” Bard says his name with a seriousness that made his stomach drop. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you…” He doesn’t continue as at that opportune moment the phone begins to ring. It’s a stay of execution and he discards his napkin and pushes his chair out. In truth, he knew this day would come. Their relationship had been flatlining for months and though he knew it had ran its course he had become complacent. 

“I’ll just get that,” he needlessly points towards the kitchen while the phone continues to ring. 

“Leave it,” Bard insists meaningfully with a pleading look on his handsome face. He stretches out his arm towards him and Bilbo recoils. He’s not ready to say goodbye, though he knows they must. Their relationship was built on weak foundations and it was only their shared love of literature that prevented it from fizzling out as all his previous relationships had.

He offers a weak smile and exits the dining room. 

Despite his hesitation the phone continues to ring and so he lifts it and brings it up to his ear. “Hello?” 

“Bilbo Baggins!” A familiar voice booms and he stifles an amused chuckle. 

“Gandalf, to what do I owe the pleasure?” The phone is cordless but he remains in the kitchen and leans against the breakfast bar. 

“We’ve found it.”

“Found what?” He asks mindlessly while trying to spy on Bard via his reflection on the glass door. 

“Erebor.” The phone slips from his slacken grip and he quickly calms himself and retrieves it from the floor. 

“Gandalf? Gandalf are you there?” The smoker’s cough suggests he is indeed still there. “Erebor, Gandalf, are you sure?” 

“As sure as I’ll ever be.” From Gandalf, those words were not reassuring but the mere possibility of discovering Erebor was not an opportunity to be missed. “I’ve already booked your flight; you fly one way to New Zealand from Heathrow at 5am. I’ll greet you when you arrive.” Not one for goodbyes or arguments, Gandalf hangs up and for a moment he remains in the kitchen, phone pressed to his ear with his mouth agape. 

He gathers himself and replaces the phone before taking a deep breath and entering the dining room once more. Bard is pouring himself another glass seemingly vexed and his temper only flares when he turns the lights on.

Under Bard’s scrutiny he struggles to find the words as he can hardly make sense of Gandalf’s message. “That was Gandalf,” he says at last and notices Bard’s eyes narrow at the name but he continues as if he has not seen. “He thinks he has found Erebor.” To simply say it was wonderous but to mean it…if it were true…it would be the greatest archaeological discovery since Tutankhamun’s tomb. 

To his surprise Bard only blinks in reply and slowly shakes his head. “This sounds like Haiti all over again.” For a moment he is disheartened, as he remembered Haiti well, believing they had discovered the wreck of Christopher Columbus’ flagship the Santa María. The findings had devastated him and on his return to England he began to frequent the local public house with alarming regularity. It was how he had become re-acquainted with Bard.

They had met before at events. He, being there by having been coerced by Gandalf and Bard accompanying his then husband, Thranduil Greenleaf. They had met at Oxford University, Bard taught English Literature while Thranduil taught Archaeology and Anthropology. They had married as soon as it had become legal and began adoption proceedings thereafter. In time they had two girls, Sigrid and Tilda and a boy named Bain. They were the envy of all who had seen them, both handsome, successful and part of a beautiful growing family. And so, it had come as a shock when it was revealed Thranduil was having an affair with one of his mature students, Haldir Lorien. Thranduil had lost his job due to his actions and instead of returning home contrite to his devoted husband he promptly moved to the Bahamas with Haldir. 

Misery loves company and in their drunken stupor they had found solace in one another. 

“But if this is Erebor…” he implores. 

“Erebor doesn’t exist!” Bard snaps, stunning him into silence. “I’m sorry Bilbo, but it is true.” Bard is a practical person and only believes in tangible things and so he does not take his outburst to heart. Erebor is a fantastical tale of a mad King, gold and dragons and it had a reputation of being New Zealand’s lost city of Atlantis. “When do you leave?” Bard grumbles knowing his mind is already made up.

“In nine hours.” Bard slams his glass down without taking a drink and drops his head in his hands. His brunet hair is short now, as he used to wear his hair long to his shoulders but as a reaction to his divorce there was barely enough to place behind his ears. 

“You’ve just got back from Siberia.” 

“See, I’m already packed.” His jest is in poor taste, he belatedly realises. 

“Don’t go,” Bard begs, lifting his head with a look of desperation on his face. “Tonight, I wanted to ask you if you would take the next step with me?” For the second time that night Bilbo became slack-jawed. He had anticipated the demise of their relationship not the evolution of it. “I want you to meet my children, I want you to move in with me.” It’s too much too quick. It’s a reaction rather than a decision and Bilbo can see through it. Thranduil had destroyed Bard’s confidence and self-esteem by leaving him with three young children and leaving with a younger man. During the maelstrom they had found each other offering comfort and caresses to touch-starved skin, momentarily filling a void. He could see what they had for what it was but his respect for Bard made him try for something more. Still, as crass as it may be, they were no more than friends with benefits. 

With his heart in his throat, he utters Bard’s name and the younger man waves off his pity. “Don’t Bilbo, just please, don’t.” He dabs at the corners of his bearded mouth with his napkin before discarding it upon his empty dinner plate and pushes his chair out. “I should go.” 

His voice wavers and Bilbo’s heart aches. He doesn’t want to cause Bard pain, he had enjoyed their time together but they were not meant to be and neither should settle for less. Bard was only holding on tighter for fear of him slipping away because something was better than nothing. He’d been there before. He had felt the harrowing hollowness of loneliness. He had had loveless relationship after loveless relationship only realising after every tumble and shy goodbye he was trying to find himself. He had reasoned it was why he had an affinity with archaeology, shifting through the sands of time trying to find pieces of the past to make sense of the present. 

His moment of introspection is taken for silent agreement as Bard stands and tucks in the chair. He’d brought an overnight bag with him and had left it by the door and he goes towards it as Bilbo follows. There’s another awkward pause as they stand in the parlour facing one another while Bard adjusts the strap of his bag over his shoulder. Despite the building tension, words evade him and he does his best impression of a dying fish opening and closing his mouth, framing words without sound. 

Bard offers him a supportive tight smile caught in the same predicament. “Well,” Bard breaks the silence and clears his throat. Bilbo can only offer a nod in response. “I really hope you find what you’re looking for.” He means it sincerely and Bilbo opens his arms in a welcoming embrace which is promptly rejected. Bard could understand his actions but his emotions were still raw and he had not forgiven him. He hoped that one day he might, as he would miss the man’s company and friendship.

“Take care,” he finally speaks as Bard opens the door. It sounds dismissive and thoughtless and Bard pays him no more attention and leaves his home without a word. His shoulders slump in defeat. His relationships tended to end amicably due to his lack of commitment but he had never hurt someone before and he feels horrible for it. Under normal circumstances Bard would have never given him a second look but they weren’t normal circumstances and however way he tried to reason his actions he couldn’t quite quell the feeling that he had taken advantage. 

He slides the bolt across the door and walks to the utility room. His suitcase is open on the floor and the spin cycle of the washing machine has finished. He opens the door and transfers his clothes from washer to dryer and fills the washing machine with his coloured clothes. He sets it for quick spin and exits the utility room and enters his study and eyes his vast collection of books. 

After knowing Gandalf for so long and hearing the excitement in his voice he assumes the flight will be direct. He collects several books regarding Erebor to while away the 18 hour flight and takes them into the kitchen where he left his travel bag. He uses the landline to phone a taxi and then goes into his bedroom to collect his charged mobile phone. His bed has not been slept in and he eyes the pristine sheets longingly. He considers resting his eyes but shakes the thoughts from his mind as he knows he will oversleep. 

Instead he sends a text to his cousin Drogo informing him he will be gone again. Living only down the road Drogo was able to stop by daily to collect his post and inform him of outstanding bills which he was then able to pay over the internet. His gardener accepted paypal which was a Godsend and with that all his bases were covered. 

He returns to the dining room and cleans the plates away and blows out the candles. He scrapes off the remainder of his meal before taking the trash out and then washing the pots. There’s food in the fridge he had bought that morning, and so he texts Drogo again telling him to have at it. He then returns to his study and turns on his computer. There is the number one above his E-mail icon and he clicks it, finding a link to his boarding pass and prints it off. Whilst there he runs a Google search for recent news on Erebor and finds none. 

The news hadn’t broken which could mean a variety of things. 1. The news was so fresh it hadn’t yet made the rounds. 2. The news was released but the media outlets believed them to be a hoax or 3. After Haiti, they learnt to keep quiet about their find until they had solid evidence. It was more than likely 3 after the Haiti incident had made them a laughing stock. The Santa María was a real ship but there was no substantial proof that Erebor even existed as it was only alluded to in texts found in Gundabad and later in Khazad-dûm. 

He switches off the computer and returns to his washing. Despite his fatigue he is grateful for Gandalf’s last-minute excursions as it left him no time to dwell on Bard. Instead his thoughts turn to Erebor, if it is Erebor…he doesn’t dare to dream. A lost piece of history unspoilt by man is too tempting. He’d never been much of a treasure hunter, he valued trinkets and knowledge above hoarded gold but throughout legend it was said the mad King Thorin Oakenshield’s wealth was unequalled that even the pharaohs would weep in jealousy. 

He toys with the ring dangling around his neck in contemplation. His knowledge of Erebor is a combination of fact and fiction and dulled by time he can hardly distinguish the two. He’d have to brush up on his knowledge on the journey. The ping of the dryer awakens him from his reverie and he begins to pack his suitcase once again. 

He highly doubts it is Erebor as he isn’t that lucky but he is still optimistic. Something had been found, there would be another chapter to his book and the story of Bilbo Baggins would continue.


	2. Chapter 2

Bilbo’s stomach lurched as the plane turned coming into land. He eyed the sick bag tucked into the seat in front of him and regretted having ordered the in-flight meal. Usually he would grab something during the two-hour fuel stop but he had fallen asleep in the departure lounge and had been shaken awake by a kindly passenger who had recognized him. 

He toys with the ring around his neck for distraction. Mind over matter. He’s flown over a thousand times but he has never been this anxious before. He turns his mind to the landing, will they applaud, will there be cheer or will there be silence? He imagines silence, not that they won’t be cheerful to land but they are simply fatigued. It had been a long flight with no turbulence and yet still sleep evaded him as it had evaded the majority of the passengers. The lucky few that had succumbed to the Sandman had been looked upon with disdain and no small amount of jealousy. 

The landing is smooth but as he had guessed it is met with no sound. One could hear a pin drop as the passengers sat rigidly in their seats bleary eyed yet relieved. As the plane comes to a halt, Bilbo quickly stands from his seat and moves into the aisle without incident. He’s on the second row from the door, as his small stature made him feel guilty for taking leg room from those in need of it by sitting in the front seat. Gandalf was generous with his money but only to a certain extent and he made-do flying economy. 

He waits for someone to open the overhead luggage compartment as he cannot reach it himself. His height was both a blessing and a curse, and so he learnt to take his lack of height with a pinch of salt. Yes, he was often overlooked but he could also move among people unseen and often cheat his way to the front of the queue. Even now, though he had to wait, a helpful passenger removes his bag to get to his own, a trick he had learnt to do early on and despite sitting in the second row he is first off the plane. 

Thankfully his flight had been the only one to arrive so he passes through Passport Control without a hitch and finds a good position by the baggage carousel waiting impatiently behind the yellow line. Hurry up and wait seems to be the mantra of every airport and he is soon joined by his tired passengers who lumber towards him like the walking dead. 

The siren of the carousel causes some passengers to lurch backwards behind the line and Bilbo drops his head to hide his smirk. He prays his bag is first but he isn’t that optimistic. During his travels he has only had two mishaps with his luggage, one where items of his belongings went around the carousel before his open bag did and another time when his luggage went to Paris while he returned to England. 

He watches as the bags begin to travel around bearing remarking similarities to one another that tags are being read to distinguish them. His suitcase is of similar appearance but bears a Snow White sticker to set it apart. Years ago, Thranduil had stuck it onto his bag declaring him a part of the team. He had been both annoyed and flattered as he looked at the seven dwarves with the word ‘Dig Dig Dig’ written above them but he hadn’t the heart to part with it and had gone so far as to sew it on for fear it may fall off. 

The suitcases he sees seem new, which makes him think business or first holiday. His is by no means tatty but it is old and bears the appearance of something well-used. Perhaps he’s overly sentimental or simply a hoarder but he couldn’t see why something should be replaced solely because of its age.

At last he sees his suitcase, the twenty-seventh to come out, not that he was counting. Nobody mistakes his bag for their own, not that he thought they would and he lifts it and carries it away from the crowd before placing it onto the floor and extending the handle to pull it along behind him. 

He has nothing to declare at customs other than he is tired and ready for bed but they don’t want to hear it and so he doesn’t say it. Instead he carries on through the arrival terminal expecting to see a familiar face. Gandalf stands at six foot four and appears to loom. He is striking in appearance with his long stringy grey hair and even longer grey beard and his walking staff sets him apart. It had been made from driftwood found in the Tenryū River and Gandalf was never without it. He had once remarked that it made Gandalf appear to be a wandering wizard and he had laughed but knowing Gandalf and his eccentricities it was an appearance he was most fond of. Bilbo had once thought that Gandalf was a rich man in beggar’s clothes and though the latter was somewhat true the former wasn’t. Gandalf and himself had found many items rich in history but lacking any monetary value. It was unfortunate but they were not treasure hunters, they found worth where others may not. In his darker thoughts and self-doubt, he reasoned that was why Gandalf had taken a shine to him. 

Despite Gandalf’s eye-catching appearance, Bilbo does not see him. He eyes his watch and sees that it is twenty to two AM in the UK which makes it now twenty to two PM. He looks around once more and sees a small welcoming committee had gathered. There was a woman stood clutching the shoulders of her blond-haired son in front of her, while another woman waits with her head turned towards the Pharmacy. Three men are stood apart lingering while two young men chat animatedly with one another.

He steps aside so he is not in the way and considers taking his phone from his bag. He quickly decides against it. If Gandalf had forgotten then he would be up in the mountain range with no signal and that was presuming he even had his phone on him when he so very rarely did. He’d just have to wait and hope that Gandalf would eventually remember him. 

There are no seats, an oversight or ploy to encourage people into the small coffee shop. He presses the handle down on his suitcase and sits on it with his arms folded and simply waits. One by one he watches as the few gathered depart with one of his fellow passengers until the gate eventually closes and only the two young lads remain deep in conversation. 

They are of similar height, five foot ten at a guess, one blond and the other brunet. Both wear their hair long and have it tied up in a bun and despite the cold they are both dressed for summer in vests and baggy shorts. He tries not to scoff at their sandals and attempts to look away when something in the brunet’s left hand catches his attention. It is a piece of brown card roughly the size of a cereal box with a name hastily scribbled.

B.O.G.G.I.N.S. 

His subtle surveillance isn’t so subtle as the brunet has fallen silent and is staring directly at him. The blond, having been ignored, then turns towards him and he sees blue eyes and a handsome bearded face with a braided moustache. Hipsters. The current blight of the archaeological society. The brunet has warm dark eyes and the makings of a beard and he shares a look with his friend and he finds himself met with two Cheshire Cat grins. 

“Mr Baggins!” The brunet exclaims meaning his sign was poor penmanship. He has half a mind to shake his head and walk away, instead he stands up and forces a smile as the boys’ head towards him. They look to be in their early twenties but it could be late, he’s a terrible judge of age which was ironic given his choice of profession. 

He shakes their extended hands and looks at their smiling faces waiting for some clue as to who they were. They seem nice enough though not incredibly bright. “Where is Gandalf?” 

“He asked us to escort you to him. I’m Frederick Dalton but please call me Freddy and this is my brother Kevin.”

“Kenny.” Kevin interrupts. 

“Kenny. We were the ones who discovered…” Frederick pauses to look around and then leans in close to whisper into his ear. “Erebor.”

“Where?”

“You’ll slap yourself,” Kenny offers and he imagines he will. One doesn’t just stumble across a mountain, not in this day and age. If Erebor has been found its name has been lost and it has been given a new one. 

They don’t say anything else, instead Frederick collects his suitcase and he follows along behind them. He’ll slap himself, so Erebor was obvious, hiding in plain sight. He had flown direct to Christchurch which puts Erebor somewhere in the southern alps but where? Erebor was also known as the Lonely Mountain according to legend which left folks scratching their heads, with ‘why?’ being the most prevalent question. What made it lonely? There certainly weren’t any isolated mountains in the southern alps or none far enough away to warrant the name Lonely. That particular name only added to the rationale that Erebor was fictional; some even claimed other-worldly suggesting Erebor could be a euphemism for heaven. 

His train of thought is disrupted as they walk outside and the boys venture in the opposite direction to the parking lot. “Where are you going?” He shouts to their backs as they continue on with his luggage.

“There’s only one way to travel, Mister Baggins.” Indeed, cheap and cheerful as Gandalf liked to say. He jogs to catch up with them and gives a low whistle when he sees the awaiting helicopter. Either the Daltons were rich or they were burning through their student loans. Still, he’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth and he climbs in after them. 

“You still haven’t said where we’re going.” He informs them through the comms on his headset once they are in the air. 

“Aoraki Mount Cook National Park.” A cold chill runs through him which he attributes to the altitude. The cold doesn’t affect him too much having grown up in dreary Britain but even he couldn’t imagine wearing shorts and sandals in this weather. The cold does act like a shot of caffeine to his tired body and he makes the most of the helicopter ride seeing sights he would not have seen by road. 

His thoughts inevitably turn towards sleep and accommodation and he fears the worst. He has long since given up any hope of staying in a luxury hotel but he had been optimistic about a lodge. In that they were flying directly to the national park with his luggage, he believed that they would be residing in one of the onsite mountaineer’s huts. Knowing Gandalf, he would have only booked one regardless of the size of the team which minimised his chances of sleeping in a bed. 

“How many are on the team?” 

“Our team?” Kenny replies. 

“There’s more than one team?” It seemed odd that there would be a second team considering there had been no news on the find. 

“Locals,” Freddy adds. It strikes him as insulting that the locals would be involved in a dig orchestrated by Dr Gandalf Grey. Did they not trust him with what he might find? or perhaps they were simply tired of their heritage being found by foreigners. 

The boys return to staring out of the windows so he ceases his line of questioning and continues to enjoy the view. The journey is short, no more than an hour and compared to an 18 hour flight it was as quick as a blink of an eye. Thankfully Gandalf had booked a hut with enough space to land so he would not have to trek up the mountain with his suitcase in tow. He hadn’t brought any of his climbing gear either, an oversight on both their parts and he begins to think he relies too heavily on Gandalf’s generosity. 

The boys disembark first grabbing his luggage and causing a ruckus while he thanks the pilot and follows behind them. The hut is larger than he had anticipated and he breathes a sigh of relief that there may be a possibility of a bed. 

The boys disappear inside the hut and suddenly a grey figure looms in the doorway with a billow of smoke drifting above his head. “Bilbo Baggins!” Gandalf exclaims and despite his best intentions not to he smiles in return and walks into Gandalf’s arms for a warm embrace. 

“I don’t appreciate you sending Tweedledee and Tweedledum to collect me.” He whispers and pats Gandalf on the arm as they separate. 

“Forgive me, Bilbo, I was much too busy and they were very much underfoot.” He can believe it. “Come inside and allow me to introduce you to our team.” Gandalf steps aside and welcomes him inside with an elaborate sweep of his arm and he enters the hut and looks around. A few faces are familiar, Kenny and Freddy are by a door to the far left which he gathers is a bedroom, the only one, as the other appears to be a bathroom and the lounge and kitchen are shared space. 

Bofur Jameson lifts his head from leaning down fiddling with the gas fire and offers him an enigmatic smile. He wears his black hair long in two thick messy plaits poking out from his woollen hat with the earflaps turned upwards. “As I live and breathe,” he says which makes his partner look up. His companion with the haphazard dirty-blond hair he does not know but judging from his close proximity to Bofur he can only assume it is Nori Smith. 

“Bilbo, as you know this is Bofur and Nori.” His introduction to Bofur is needless as they knew one another intimately. Their relationship had been short-lived as they soon realised they were only friends and though it was by no means a secret no one seemed to know they ever took that next step. 

He shakes Nori’s hand and finds his palm sweaty and wonders if Bofur had told him about them. He hopes not as it was barely a month and he is in no way a threat. An older man with cropped grey hair and a younger man with a bowel-cut are next in line. “Dori and Ori Smith.” 

He shakes their hands. “Smith?” he questions throwing a look towards Nori. The young one, Ori, has his colouring. 

“Yes, that’s our no-good brother,” Dori says in good humour and wanders off to help Nori with the fire. Ori flounders, suddenly lost before scuttling after his brothers. There’s one more within the hut, an older fellow with a shock of white hair and a stark white forked beard reclining on the sofa. Realising he is next to be introduced he climbs off the sofa with some effort chuckling quietly to himself. He’s short, smaller than himself and there is something familiar about him though he can’t quite tell what. 

“Bilbo Baggins allow me to introduce Balin…”

“Fundin!” He interrupts with a click of his fingers as it comes to him. “Balin Fundin, I’m a huge fan. Your work on the Gundabad chronicles was second to none. It is an honour to work with you.” Perhaps he lays it on too thick and he certainly shakes Balin’s hand overzealously but he means what he says. 

Gandalf and Balin share an amused look. “I told you,” Gandalf says with a laugh. “Come now Bilbo, ready yourself, we leave in ten minutes.” His cheer is diminished by the news as he had hoped for some shut-eye before the excavation. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He continues to Balin and finally releases his hand. “I hope to be able to pick your brain about your discovery of Khazad-dûm at a later date.” 

“Of course, laddie, that’s why I’m here.” He still can’t quite believe that he is talking to The Balin Fundin after having spent the majority of his journey reading all the man’s published work. His presence is a good omen, Balin is the foremost historian on the Longbeards, the tribe that lived in the mountains long before the Māori. A tribe of warriors and kings and the last known descendant was the Mad King, Thorin Oakenshield. 

He doesn’t want to put too much faith in it, but the signs are there, they had found Erebor.


	3. Chapter 3

Bilbo tilted his head back and looked up 1,700 metres above to Mount Cook’s high peak and immediately regretted not bringing his camera. From this angle the shot would be terrible and he’d be better off buying a professional print from the gift shop but there was something about taking the picture himself as if framing his own memories. 

“Kicking yourself yet?” Kenny asks playfully nudging his shoulder as he walks ahead and loops an arm around his brother’s neck bringing him down into a headlock. Their immaturity is troubling as is their over familiarity but their actions are innocent enough and there is something endearing about them. 

“Why should I be kicking myself?” He asks Gandalf as the older man reaches him. 

“My dear Bilbo has no one told you?” He shakes his head, no one has told him anything. He’d never gone to an excavation site this blind before. “What do you see?” 

He bites his tongue to stifle a nasty retort and looks at the apex of the mountain once more. “Mount Cook?” He offers unsure, as that is all he can currently see from his position.

“Oh no,” Gandalf laughs within a cough. “You are looking at Erebor.” His jaw drops in response and Kenny was right, he certainly wants to slap himself as well as kick himself. Erebor was the richest and therefore the greatest kingdom on earth of course it would be the tallest mountain in the southern alps, it is so obvious that it is not, it is covert by being overt. It also didn’t help that Mount Cook was associated with Māori mythology substituting one legend for another. 

“How?” The question leaves his lips but he is unsure of what he asks. How did we not know? How could Mount Cook possibly be known as The Lonely Mountain? How did the boys find it? 

“Come along Bilbo.” Gandalf insists, ignoring his vague question. He hopes they don’t have to venture far, it is only a preliminary surveillance but he is cold and jetlagged and has the beginnings of a migraine. 

It’s late January and the terrain isn’t ideal due to extensive crevassing. The route has been known to become impassable at such times but the boys struck him as adrenaline junkie thrill seekers and the added danger of rock and ice fall only added to the thrill. It’s thoughtless but he never assumed the boys were thinkers, too spontaneous for that and coupled with their devil-may-care attitude they were walking hazards. 

They don’t climb for very long, thirty to forty minutes at most off the beaten track when they come across a fissure in the rock. It is no bigger than the size of a manhole and from the surrounding debris it looks as if it had been uncovered by a rock fall. Still, it’s minute in comparison to the mountain and he wonders how the boys happened upon it. 

“Here we are!” Kenny announces with a smile before he crawls through the gap quickly followed by Freddy. Gandalf is next and then himself. From the almost perfect circular shape of the hole he had thought it to be manmade but crawling through and feeling the sharp jutting rocks, he finds he is mistaken. Gandalf pauses before him and he clutches the ring around his neck to calm himself. He isn’t claustrophobic but being packed inside a chasm in a mountain with no light isn’t ideal and his thoughts turn to the worst possible scenarios. 

“Bloody rocks!” Gandalf exclaims and despite his nerves or rather because of them he laughs loudly in response. 

They continue to crawl for several metres before the chasm widens and they are able to stand. Freddy and Kenny await them with wind-up torches and he inspects the wide cavern finding it natural and not manmade as they await the others. 

“How did you find this place?” He hears himself asking as he eyes the rock in dismay. He had a sinking feeling that Mount Cook was simply Mount Cook and they had all let their imaginations get away from them. 

“We were climbing and there was a rock slide. We tried to backtrack but it was too late, next thing I hear Kenny scream as he got his leg caught in the hole. It must have been covered in ice that gave way. Anyway, we dove in for cover trying to fit both of us comfortably and the hole kept going so we kept going. Next thing we’re standing where you are and I bring my torch out and there,” Freddy acts out his past actions and shines his torch on the opposite wall. For a moment nothing happens and he is beginning to give up hope when a hint of gold glitters in the torchlight. “A keyhole!” Freddy announces triumphantly. “So, I’m thinking if there is a keyhole there must be a door.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” He’s tired and irritable but he most certainly did not mean to say that aloud. Freddy looks crestfallen as Bofur laughs heartily at his response which causes Nori to level him with an icy glare. He liked that Bofur laughed at his jokes as so few people did as they found them deadpan or dark, although he is beginning to begrudge his audience now that Nori is making no attempts to hide his disdain for him. 

“Let’s try this door of yours!” Gandalf says loudly breaking the sudden tension. Nori is quick to offer his services and Dori is keen to help while he takes Kenny’s torch and shines it upon the keyhole. Never mind if there is a keyhole there must be a door, if there’s a keyhole there must be a key and in all probability the door was locked. He blames his standoffishness and pessimism on his nerves. He could be standing on the doorstep of a lost kingdom and he is terrified that this was simply Haiti all over again. 

Freddy passes his torch to Gandalf and the boys join Nori and Dori in pressing against the cavern wall. He doesn’t want to lose faith since he had travelled so far for this moment but with each synchronized push without reward his heart sinks further. Within minutes their actions become desperate as they shoulder the wall and claw and scratch at it without success. 

“That’s quite enough,” Gandalf intervenes announcing their cause as a lost one. It pains him to see the hope die in all their eyes especially the boys’ and the look of resignation on all their sad faces. He hadn’t been overly optimistic from the start but to give up now when they were so close seemed foolish. 

“Don’t go,” he tries to rally them and instil a sense of hope that they had lost. 

“It’s no good Bilbo, maybe next time.” Bofur says with a tight smile before following Nori through the tunnel. 

“Gandalf?” He begs helplessly as one by one the team retreat. 

“I’m sorry Bilbo.” Even in the faint torchlight Gandalf looks visibly upset. He imagines if he were to say more Gandalf may cry so he allows him to go for both of their sakes. Why he then lingers he does not know. He winds up the dying torch and approaches the wall wondering just what it was the boys had found, obviously not a keyhole given the lack of a door, yet he could have sworn he had seen it himself. 

He shines the light where he had seen the keyhole but nothing reflects the light as before. He waves the torch expecting to have the light bounce off the gold or more than likely copper given the location but again nothing happens. Since he cannot see he uses his hands to feel for the keyhole but finds nothing. Surely there had been a keyhole, he could have sworn he had seen it, but had he? He’d heard about things like this happening before, a shared mania where one lie is believed among the masses. Did he see the keyhole because it was there or did he see it because he wanted to see it? 

It seemed to be the latter as there was no sign of it. He hangs his head in disappointment and releases a pent-up sigh. “Sleep well, Thorin Oakenshield,” he whispers to the rock and places his hand upon the smooth surface reverently as though it was the Western Wall. He doesn’t want to leave but he knows he must. He musters his courage and pushes away from the rock and feels the rock give way beneath his right hand. 

He jumps back, startled and hears the grinding of ancient gears. “It’s not a keyhole,” he mutters to himself. “It’s not a keyhole!” He yells hoping the others might hear him. A crack forms in the rock in the shape of a slanted door and he steps back coughing as rock ground to powder is released into the air. “It isn’t a keyhole!” He shouts walking towards the tunnel. It possibly isn’t his greatest idea shouting their own folly to them. “It’s a door! It’s a secret door!” He turns back to look towards the cavern wall and sees the door standing open revealing nothing but darkness. “Come back!” He yells and winds the torch. 

“No need to shout.” The startled cry that leaves his mouth is embarrassing as he hadn’t realised Gandalf was standing behind him. 

“I knew it!” Freddy cheers triumphantly. “But how did you get it open?” 

“Purely by accident,” he humbly admits. “There was a door like this found in the Pyramid of Giza hidden behind another door in the Grand Gallery. I think the earthquake cracked a piece of the limestone which you then mistook as the keyhole but was the key itself.” 

“Then what glittered in the dark?” Kenny asks and he gleefully shines his torch into the darkened space and the tunnel gleams in gold. 

“Oh my word,” Dori whispers awestruck and steps forward. 

“Erebor’s wealth lay in the earth, in precious gems hewn from rock and great seams of gold running like rivers through stone.” Bilbo quotes as he steps forward and crosses the threshold into Erebor. “It is, isn’t it Gandalf?” He asks second guessing himself as the man follows him inside. “It is Erebor?” He walks further ahead allowing space for the others to join them. The rock is artificially shaped, manmade not natural and he presses his finger into a grove made by a pickaxe long ago.

“’Ere, what’s that?” Bofur asks and he turns looking above the door where the others shine their torches. There’s a carving within the rock depicting a throne with a gem above with rays of light shining like the sun and above and below the image is writing. He shines his light upon the letters and sees they are similar to ancient Greek but not the same. 

“Gandalf, can you read this?” 

“It’s Khuzdul,” Balin answers. “The native tongue of Durin’s folk.”

“Can you read it?” Kenny asks.

“No,” Balin answers with a shake of his head. “Not in this light and not with my eyes.” 

“Herein lies the seventh kingdom of Durin’s folk.” Ori begins to read startling all but Balin and Gandalf. “May the heart of the mountain unite all in defence of this home.” 

“Let us move on,” Gandalf urges as time is against them and they were still without proof that they did indeed stand in Erebor’s ancient halls. The tunnel is long and veers left twice and three times right before they step out onto a balcony. Their torchlight is weak in the vast hall with a vaulted ceiling but he manages to spy tapestries 50 metres long and 10 metres wide depicting various coats of arms. 

“Gundabad” Balin says coming to stand beside him and eyeing the cloth he was illuminating. “Iron Hills” he says moving his arm to another tapestry. “Belegost, Nogrod, Orocarni, Khazad-dûm.” Balin shines a light upon the last tapestry gold in colour with an anvil with crossed hammers above and seven stars above them. “Erebor,” he says with no little amount of awe. “The seven kingdoms united in the Gallery of the Kings.”

“Is this Erebor?” Someone asks behind them though he can’t quite distinguish who. 

“Yes, I daresay it is.”


	4. Chapter 4

Their journey back was done in awed silence but once they reached the hut the team came alive with excitable whispers. Gandalf immediately takes his leave of them and goes into the single room in the far left and shuts the door behind him. He means to follow but his presence is not required as Gandalf is only ordering supplies. 

He watches the others set out their sleeping bags around the gas fire and he looks to the door Gandalf went through forlornly. He had packed his sleeping bag but his suitcase was in the bedroom and he had no desire to disturb Gandalf knowing how scatter-brained he became when interrupted. 

Instead he seats himself beside Balin on the sofa with enough space between them so the man doesn’t become uncomfortable. There’s butterflies in his stomach at the thought of conversing with this man but he is suddenly crippled with insecurities. He’s apprehensive about starting a conversation after his embarrassing introduction and so he stays quiet and listens to the others in hopes that Balin may engage him in conversation. 

“’Course, we’re not the first to find it.” He overhears Kenny. “Other teams spent the night there but something struck in the wee hours when everyone was asleep, quick and quiet, no screams just lots of blood and no witnesses.” He shares a smirk with his brother and bites his bottom lip to keep from laughing. 

The others are quiet while Ori looks terrified. “If there were no witnesses, and Erebor has been lost for centuries how do you know that happened?” Dori grumpily contradicts the story. From what he’s seen of him he is an overbearing brother and overprotective of Ori, which is only amplified by Ori playing into it. He can’t fault him; Dori’s love may be smothering but it was pure. 

“Cut-throats aren’t your problem,” Bofur adds. “The dragon is your problem.”

“A dragon?” He hears himself ask and anticipates the side-eyed glare Nori gives him a moment later. 

“Think furnace with wings, airborne fire-breather. Teeth like razors, claws like meat hooks, extremely fond of precious metals. He’ll melt the flesh off your bones in a blink of an eye.” 

“I know what a dragon is,” he mumbles with a roll of his eyes. 

“Legend says the Mad King turned into a dragon,” Freddy adds. 

“No, he wasn’t the dragon the Arkenstone was a dragon egg and drove him insane.” Nori counters. 

“Why would an egg drive him insane?” Kenny asks. 

“Because it didn’t,” Freddy answers. “The wealth of Erebor surpassed that of Pharaoh Amenhotep the third.” For a moment he is taken by surprise by Freddy’s knowledge having believed he and his brother were mountaineers and nothing more. “Thorin came down with gold-sickness and since he had no heir he became obsessed with his treasure believing everyone desired to take it from him. So he began to hide it, to horde it, like a dragon until he eventually became one.” 

“Nice try but he did have an heir, two of ‘em.” Freddy’s face falls and he looks to Balin for confirmation. 

“Sorry lad but he’s right, his sister sons, Fíli and Kíli. Fíli being the eldest and therefore heir apparent.” 

“What happened to them?” He asks timidly as he did not wish to appear overly keen and in truth he had never heard about nephews before. There were a lot of rumours surrounding Erebor mostly unsubstantiated and the majority fantastical but the one man that could shed light on the truth was sitting beside him. 

“The King, driven mad by their perceived treachery- he murdered them.”

“Treachery?” Kenny asks. 

“The Arkenstone,” Balin pauses and looks around the room. “You’ve all heard the stories?” His question was met with rigorous nodding. There were many varying stories about Erebor but all acknowledged the Arkenstone. Found buried deep in the dark it had earned itself the title of the heart of the mountain. Thorin’s grandfather Thrór named it the King’s Jewel and took it as a sign that his rule was divine. It was considered the largest diamond on earth with a value surpassing that of the British crown jewels. “In a text found in Khazad-dûm it was suggested the King acted irrationally and it spoke of his bane, assuming that was the Arkenstone one might think his nephews meant to help by taking it away from him. It’s pure speculation, I don’t pretend to know the King’s mind and I’m quite sure he wasn’t of the right mind. The text speaks of madness, and it must be so, why else would a great king end his own bloodline and a kingdom as grand as Erebor fall to ruin?” 

All is quiet as the gathered mull over Balin’s words. “Because he’s a dragon?” Freddy offers and Bofur smacks him over the back of his head while the others groan at his response. 

“There’s no such thing as dragons.” He offers to put to bed Freddy’s ridiculous notion. 

“Oh yeah, what’s a pterodactyl then?” 

“A prehistoric bird.”

“A great flying reptile,” Freddy counters. 

“A pterodactyl’s wingspan has been largely exaggerated they were as big as a stork.” 

“Okay what about a komodo dragon?” 

“No wings, four legs akin to a crocodile.”

“You’re no fun Master Baggins,” Kenny grumbles as Freddy has been rendered speechless. 

“Leave the boys to their delusions,” Balin suggests gripping his knee. “We know the facts are far worse than their fiction.” He pats his leg and then relaxes in his seat once more. 

“What’s worse than him being a dragon?” Kenny asks. 

“What he did.”

“What did he do?” Ori asks. 

“Before he murdered his nephews he threw his spouse off the ramparts and their body was so torn up by the rocks it was never fully recovered.” 

“Their?”

“I had assumed a woman at first, but the king had no queen and no children though the text was clear when it had said he had cast his lover away.” 

“Balin,” Freddy addresses the older man with a seriousness he usually lacked. “Do you honestly believe this is Erebor?” 

“Yeah, what makes this one Erebor and not one of the other four missing ones?” Nori adds. 

“The banner, it was intact and held pride of place. In Gundabad it had been burnt down and in Khazad-dûm it had been torn down.”

“A bit of an overreaction, don’t you think? I don’t condone the king’s actions but what business is it of theirs?” Dori states and he finds himself nodding along. The English monarchy had a long-bloody- storied past and the next three successions were already secured. Why would the King’s madness cause the dissolution of the seven kingdoms? 

“Little is said about Erebor in the Gundabad chronicles and only one word describes the Mad King, oathbreaker.” Balin holds up his hand as though sensing the barrage of questions. “The other pages were missing; a great many pages were missing so whatever Thorin Oakenshield did has been lost to time.” 

“Well!” Gandalf announces with a clap of his hands re-joining them. “That’s enough tales for one evening. Now, early to bed early to rise.” He spies his sleeping bag rolled and held in the crook of Gandalf’s arm and it is promptly thrown to him. It had been in his suitcase but he doesn’t mind Gandalf going through his things as he had nothing to hide and they lived in each other’s pockets.

The others are subdued by Gandalf’s looming presence and he quickly sets up his bag beside Ori as Balin kicks his feet up and lays down on the sofa. Gandalf watches over them like a warden and once satisfied he returns to the bedroom and closes the door behind him. 

Almost immediately the whispers start again, this time discussing what Erebor must have been like, who the people were and what the food was like. Despite nearing forty-eight hours without adequate rest he finds himself listening attentively and when he finally closes his eyes he dreams of golden floors and blue stormy eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

They return to the mountain much later than he had anticipated and in his anxious fretting he had bitten his nails down to the quick. What few hours’ sleep he did manage proved useless as he awoke the worse for it. The mountain was like a siren calling to him in his sleep and he longed to return with every fibre of his being. 

He had become agitated when he had been informed they must evacuate and it took some cajoling to make him aboard the helicopter. He was sure the others felt similarly, as he stared out of the window longingly with each mile away feeling like a knife sinking further into his gut. 

Black powder was a controllable substance but even the smallest explosion in such weather conditions could prove hazardous. The tunnel to the door had to be blown open for the generator and lighting rigs and so his heart, though passionate, succumbed to logic. 

Now that he had returned to the mountain his heart was in his throat as he paces before the door. He doesn’t know what is more troubling, that they had uncovered one of the greatest kingdoms on earth or that they had not. 

He moves out of the way as two bald men in grey robes pass him carrying in the last of the lighting rigs. They do not speak and keep their eyes to the floor reminding him of monks that have taken a vow of silence. New Zealand had an eclectic range of religions but he finds it hard to place theirs not knowing if they belonged to a monastery or a church. He doesn’t ask for fear of prying and also that his question would be met with silence. He’d question Gandalf if his need to know became desperate. 

The others eventually join him in the tunnel, each carrying their own weight in supplies. The trek up and down the mountain was inadvisable this time of year so it had been decided that they would reside in the mountain as it would keep out the bitter wind and they had enough provisions to stay warm. In truth, they had all forgotten if it was warm in the mountain or not as they had become lost in fantasy sharing legends and myths around a gas fire. The boys were bundled up and that was all that he cared about, though why their welfare concerned him he didn’t quite know. 

“Come on then!” Kenny eagerly shouts while making his way towards the door as the last two monks leave the mountain. Freddy follows and then Balin and he turns to see Gandalf speaking with one of the monks before he follows behind Balin and enters the mountain. 

“Boys?” Balin calls as the lads race ahead. There is something disarming and fatherly about Balin which the boys seem to notice too as they stop in their tracks. “If there is a dragon down there, best not wake it.” There’s a brief moment of silence before the boys burst out in laughter and Balin turns to wink at him. He smiles in return and looks over his shoulder to share the joke but is only met with scorn as Nori glares at him wiping the smile from his face. He turns back and shrinks into himself wanting to become small and invisible. He doesn’t like the discord between himself and Nori but he despises confrontations more and so the obvious bad blood would have to fester. 

He is not even sure what he has done to earn Nori’s wrath, he’d only met him yesterday and knew him only by name before. He can only assume it has something to do with his short-lived romance with Bofur which was over before it had begun. It’s such a non-issue and he knows if they could just talk calmly they might even be friends but Nori strikes him as a hothead and he can’t imagine the conversation not becoming heated. Confrontations aren’t for him, he liked to keep the peace and when he couldn’t he would respectfully bow out and keep his distance. He had always been that way, even in school he had avoided potential confrontations by keeping to himself and hiding in the library. It made it difficult to make friends but he liked to keep people at arm’s length; any closer, then they had the potential to hurt him just as much as the bullies. His distancing of himself led to the dissolution of many friendships and relationships but they ended amicably, aside from Bard.

He shakes his head and shifts his pack into a more comfortable position and trudges on. When they get to the balcony Balin remains wanting to study the tapestries while he follows the boys down the stairs and out onto the floor. The lighting rigs are set up in each corner of the rectangular shaped hall and he follows the boys heading left while Dori, Nori and Bofur head right. Ori remains on the balcony with Balin and eventually Gandalf joins them and heads towards the generator. 

The lighting rigs are equipped with their own generators and each one has a full tank of fuel. He presses the green button and lifts up the control. Tentively, he touches the controller and breathes a sigh of relief as the lighting pole extends normally. He was familiar with these lighting rigs as he was with Gandalf when he bought them from a construction site in Liverpool that had gone under. They had purchased the rigs next to nothing but they were aged with some rust and as he well knew, one of the controls was sensitive to the touch. He hears a squawk behind him and stifles his sniggers as he realises Bofur got the dud rig. 

“Are you laughing Bilbo?” Bofur yells out in good humour. 

“Not at all,” he counters without turning so Bofur cannot see his smirk. He continues to raise the light and stops just short of the balcony. “Let there be light,” he mumbles to himself and hits the button sending a beam of light across the hall. 

“Bloody hell!” Balin curses and he looks up to see the older man covering his eyes from the beam of light he had shone in his face. 

“I’m so sorry Balin!” He yells up to the balcony and turns the rig.

“Bilbo!” Bofur calls out and he releases a sigh of annoyance wondering what he had done now. 

“Yes?”

“Help me with this damn thing, will you?” 

“I could help,” Kenny offers, despite his rig still being inactive. 

“You’re too ham-fisted, this requires a gentle touch.” 

“You hear that, Kenny? Bofur thinks Bilbo’s got a gentle touch.” The brothers laugh and despite being unable to see him, he can feel the heat of Nori’s glare in the dark. He wants to ignore Bofur and carry on but his rig is operable and considering all present, he was best for the task at hand. 

“It’s possessed, is what it is.” Bofur is complaining by the time he joins him and finds Kenny had approached regardless of necessity. 

“Give it here,” he holds his hand out for the controller as he fears for the hydraulics as the rig is going up and down. With a steady hand, he gently presses the up control and the rig extends smoothly. He stops just short of the balcony, and positions the rig before turning the light on. 

“It’s possessed,” Kenny mocks while he frowns looking up at the lights. One of the three fluorescent tubes had blown but there is nothing to be done about it. He hears scuffling behind him and he gently sets the control down and turns to see Bofur and Kenny both bent forward in joint headlocks. There’s debris on the floor, possibly shaken loose during the earthquake and it isn’t long before one of them is on the floor and the other crying in victory. 

The third rig sends a beam of light diagonally across the room. “Oh shit!” Bofur exclaims from the ground.

“I didn’t push you that hard,” Kenny sulks. 

“Not that,” Bofur replies. “The floor, it’s gold, it’s solid gold!” The others immediately converge on their location summoned by Bofur’s excitable shouting. 

“It is!” Kenny agrees. “We’re rich!” He whoops and spins around with his brother in joy. 

“Fascinating,” Gandalf says, crouching down and wiping some dust from the shiny surface. “Over a thousand years old and it still has not lost its shine.” 

“That’s because it is pure gold.” Bofur enthusiastically informs them and he being a geologist they take his word for it. “We’re standing on a floor that is worth millions.” Bofur crows and takes up dancing with Nori and the lads. For once Gandalf seems lost for words while he imagines the halls in all their glory. 

“It is just like you described,” he says once Balin joins them. “I can almost hear the harp.” He could imagine a voice too, a deep rich baritone that sang of home. 

“Like I described?”

“You mentioned the dances were held here on the golden floor?” He offers, suddenly doubting himself because of Balin's searching look. 

“In the Gallery of the King’s? I would assume this hall was for foreign dignitaries and the banquet hall would be for dancing. This I do not know and it was a claim I did not make, as for the floor, this is the first I am hearing of it.” There’s a throbbing behind his right eye and he rubs his forehead above it to alleviate the pain. “Are you alright son?” He’s not sure if he winces or smiles in reply.

“Must be the lights, my eye feels as if it is about to explode.” 

“Come with me then,” Balin offers, taking his arm. “This hubbub won’t be helping any.” Balin’s torch is in his hand while his own was left on top of his lighting rig but he has a bright light on his keychain in his pocket if they became desperate for light. 

They walk off the beaten track, opposite from where they entered and pass through an archway into another hall just as grand but without tapestries. It’s dangerous to walk off alone but his head does feel better being away from those gleeful squawks. 

“I do apologise, Balin.” He finally speaks as they veer off left towards the back of the hall. “I must have read it somewhere and assumed it was your work.” 

“I don’t think you read it anywhere, I like to keep an eye on my competition and no one to my knowledge made mention of it.” 

“Oh, maybe a film then?” Several films had been made about Erebor, the majority were action and adventure, the others horror and dark romanticism. He had seen them all, drawn in by the mere mention of Erebor, it was something of an obsession of his; he had even written his thesis on the existence of Erebor which garnered a few laughs. 

“How’s your head?”

“Better.”

“Fancy going on an adventure?” There’s mischief dancing in Balin’s blue eyes and despite knowing better he nods eagerly. “This way,” Balin urges and he follows him to the right-hand corner of the room. There’s something large to the centre against the back wall but he cannot make it out in just the torchlight and he pays it no more attention as Balin races ahead of him. 

In his musing he hadn’t seen the small archway that had piqued Balin’s interest. It leads only to spiral staircase and Balin shines his torch upon the stone steps. “Shall we?” He sounds too eager to refuse and regardless of his answer Balin begins to climb and he follows immediately after least he lose what little light they had.

He doesn’t count the steps but he counts the turns- seven- before they reach the top that leads out onto a stone walkway. It looks dangerous but before he could speak his doubts Balin is off again with twice the energy of someone half his age. He regrets not bringing his torch now and nervously fidgets with the ring around his neck as he keeps to the path revealed in Balin’s torchlight. They keep heading straight for forty-five steps before Balin stops, the path continues ahead but they’ve come to a junction with options to turn left or right. Balin shines his torch down the right avenue and reveals nothing but darkness, they turn left and shine the torch expecting the same but something glitters in the dark. They share a nervous look before walking towards the glimmer, both lost in awed intrigue they trip up the five steps. 

Their shared laughter is nervous as they stand and dust themselves off. It was a silly fall but it brings attention to their utter foolishness to leave the group. Still, they don’t leave, instead Balin winds the torch and once again shines it ahead of them. 

“Oh my word,” Balin whispers, stunned as he shines the light up and down a seat carved from a huge stalactite that gleams with a vein of unmined gold. The seat is intact but broken with half the backrest severed disfiguring a gold mounted geometric frame with what appears to be a hollowed space within the centre. “So the legend is true,” Balin mumbles to himself and stands as close as possible to the seat without touching it. “The Arkenstone.” 

It strikes him then that he is not looking at an ordinary seat but a throne; the very throne depicted above the secret door, the throne of Erebor. “There can be no mistake, this is the throne of the King Under the Mountain. Congratulations Bilbo, you are now standing where the Mad King stood over a thousand years ago.” He peers at the throne in the weak torchlight and realises the damage was not natural, it had been hacked at, destroyed and the Arkenstone had been taken. 

He wants to celebrate but he could muster little cheer knowing the king had lost his mind sat upon that throne. He must have felt so alone in his palace of gold. He shakes his head realising he is sympathising with the devil. The King had murdered his consort and his heirs for his own personal wealth and yet…

“Balin? Bilbo?” He hears their names being called out in panic. 

“Best get back to them,” Balin says with the same mischievous smile that had led them to this finding. 

“Balin! Bilbo!” They don’t answer back as their voices will only echo. Instead he brings out his keychain and shines his light as he and Balin rush along the walkway to return to the others. He casts one last long lingering look towards the throne swallowed in darkness and imagines he sees sad sapphire eyes before his headache suddenly returns and he follows Balin down the stairs.


	6. Chapter 6

The lighting rig offered little light from a distance. The 40-watt bulbs shine like a beacon in close proximity but stationed at the door to the Grand Gallery the light is swallowed by darkness. Even so, it doesn’t deter Bilbo from returning to the throne twice more.

After he and Balin re-joined the others and spoke of their find the team were quick to take off towards the stairs, proper etiquette be damned in their pursuit of the truth. He had followed and found them lined before the throne eyeing the stalactite with happy relief. All but Gandalf, who eyed the hollowed space with a touch of sadness. He could sympathise, as he too longed to see the Arkenstone in all its glory, the pinnacle of the Durin’s success or perhaps the bane of it. 

Since then, the team had come alive, rushing down the stairs to retrieve their equipment. He hadn’t realised how subdued the team had been until that moment. They had all salivated at the thought of Erebor, but even with the mounting evidence they could not bring themselves to fully believe because to believe was then to be able to fail. Haiti had taught him that. Bofur had been there, as well as Gandalf and though the others were spared the immediate shame, it had sent ripples throughout the archaeological world and everyone felt the brunt of their mistake. It had cowed them and made them hesitant, but now they had their proof. The throne of Erebor was depicted in a book found in Khazad-dûm, eliminating all doubt. They had found the lost Kingdom. 

He had followed the others down the stairs back into the Gallery of the Kings before coming to a halt beside Bofur’s lighting rig. He had watched as Gandalf and Nori went off to retrieve the camera and later heard Gandalf giving commentary from the secret door, explaining their journey as he retraced their steps. Bofur had returned to his pack and eagerly rifled through his supplies finding his tools and rushing off with his chisel to take rock samples. While Balin and Ori returned once more to the balcony where Balin described the tapestries and Ori hastily wrote in his black leather-bound book. 

He even watched as Dori and Freddy began to unpack their gear while Kenny took to sketching a brief outline of the kingdom making him feel like a spare part. Normally his role was historian but with Balin present his service was no longer required. He also acted as Gandalf’s second but the team worked as a cohesive unit rendering his position useless. He had felt useless, undermined and unwanted. 

He had taken his leave from the group without word. Thoughtless, but the others were engrossed in their tasks and he wasn’t comfortable interrupting them because he wanted to see the throne once more. He couldn’t explain his desire to see it again, he only knew he had to and so he had returned to the throne and had remained there. 

In his mind he tried to reconcile the past but he could not. The King’s actions made little sense. It was one thing to be selfish but his actions weren’t just of greed, they were destructive. Why annihilate his entire family? He could not take his gold with him, why deny his own kin their future and himself a legacy that will live on long after his death? Why besmirch his family name and his honour? What was his motivation? 

He tried to put himself in the King’s position and paced before the throne with the eyes of Thorin’s forefather’s staring in judgement. He must have had the weight of the world on his shoulders, the pressure could cause anyone to snap but to murder his family? Something must have triggered his dangerous outburst but what? 

Legend blames the Arkenstone. A diamond so magnificent Thrór named it the King’s Jewel and bestowed power upon it. Whomever should hold the Arkenstone would rule over the seven kingdoms. It was folly, of course, undermining his own rule, a costly mistake. Why bestow power upon a gem? His actions led many to believe that the diamond may not have been a diamond at all. Some suggested it was a meteorite and it was radiation from the stone that drove both Thrór and Thorin insane. There was speculation that it could be a dragon egg from the fantasists, and a dinosaur egg from the realists. Spiritualists suggested that with the range of colours the Arkenstone could have been used as a spirit trap and a malevolent spirit controlled the king’s actions. 

It made him want to see it all the more. He had examined the throne to the best of his ability and even checked the floor to see if the Arkenstone had fallen though his search was in vain. However, his search wasn’t entirely useless as he eyed the now severed frame and found a secret button. It was a simple catch mechanism disguised as a part of the frame and now exposed from the damage. The king would have known about it so why then hack away at the throne? If it were rage why not destroy the entire thing instead of focusing solely on the stone and if it were the stone he was truly after why then not just release it? 

The questions weighed heavy upon him because he couldn’t make sense of them. Discovering the past was supposed to answer questions not ask more of them. So far, they had learnt that the Arkenstone existed, that the seven kingdoms were not imaginary and Erebor had a line of king’s, the memory of them etched in stone. So where was Thorin Oakenshield, the last known king of Erebor? Legend suggests they will come across his body in a stash of gold with skeletal hands clutching the Arkenstone, his back bent from curling possessively around the stone as his empire crumbled to dust.

The thought of finding the once great king like that turned his stomach and hurt him in ways he could not explain. He did not know why the king’s demised troubled him, or why he felt the need to justify the king’s callous actions. He had never felt the need to question the past before but he needed to make sense of the senseless. Thorin Oakenshield imploded, his attack was targeted upon himself, as if he meant to eradicate himself from history. What grave error could he have made to deal such punishment upon himself?

Punishment. 

He eyes the backrest of the throne once more and sees only the result of rage. A terrifying rage. He reaches for the camera around his neck and instead his fingers twist around the gold chain and his ring in the camera’s absence. He would like a picture to immortalise the throne but the light is too dim and he cannot see past the throne to see if there are any photo-sensitive artefacts behind it. He is also unaware of what creatures had taken refuge in the halls and the last thing he needed was to create a swarm of bats. 

He had to wait and simply ignore the churning feeling in his gut. The throne unsettled him in ways he could not decipher, he only knew or rather felt, that something was wrong.

A piercing scream jolts him from his reverie followed by the panicked shouts of the team. He immediately takes off running along the walkway and down the stairs. The hubbub is emitting from the King’s Gallery and he rushes towards the light at the entrance and emits a scream of his own as he’s suddenly grabbed as soon as he crosses the threshold. 

“Bilbo Baggins have you taken leave of your senses?” The arms that hold him tightly release him and he turns finding Gandalf glowering at him. He shrinks into himself having never been on the receiving end of one of Gandalf’s infamous glares before.

“I…err…I…” he splutters unhelpfully. 

“It is dangerous to wander alone, should anything happen to you I could not forgive myself.” His heart is warmed by the confession but then Gandalf’s eyes narrow and his anger overthrows his hurt. “Stick to the path!” He nods vigorously knowing as much.

“What happened?” He asks, eventually finding his voice and waves in the direction of the top left corner in the King’s Gallery where the others are huddled. 

“Come and see,” Gandalf offers without enthusiasm. He follows along aware of the distance grown between them and can only blame himself for his stupidity. Gandalf’s anger is born from a concern for his well-being which he had flagrantly ignored. 

As they approach he can see one of the ancient carvings of a king had crumbled, identifiable only by the round stone head wearing a helm with hollowed circular eyes open wide as if in horror over its own demise. There is nothing remarkable about it, but Nori is recording and Bofur is taking digital pictures of the fallen stone. 

He follows Nori’s journey with his eyes and sees that a path has been cleared and revealed a hidden alcove not unlike the stairs in the Grand Gallery. He takes his leave of Gandalf and follows Nori into the nook and stifles his cry of amazement with his hand as he looks around. Bookshelves, several of them, poorly made but the majority are filled with parchment and a few more adorned with books.

He feels a presence behind him and finds Gandalf in the doorway appearing vexed and he could only blame himself for Gandalf’s temper. He turns back and sees Ori and Balin beside an oak table perusing an open scroll, while Balin appears serious Ori is giddy with excitement and he realises then that it was Ori’s scream of delight that he had heard. 

He walks over to the pair, noticing one of the lighting rigs has been set up in the corner and looks over the scroll. He can’t read Khuzdul and has no idea what has been written, and can only see it had not been finished. Balin looks vaguely troubled but then without a smile he always appears that way as does Gandalf so he puts it down to a nuance of age. Ori is avidly reading and does not share his expression and his nerves are calmed. He had feared those were the dying words of a scribe speaking against the Mad King. It is silly really, as there are no signs of trouble, no spilled ink or overturned furniture, everything is simply covered in dust and cobwebs, abandoned. 

He peruses the many bookshelves, always trailing behind Nori so he is not filmed. It always makes him cringe when he sees himself on film or when his picture is taken for a local paper or posted on a website. Even his Twitter icon is the Yorkshire dales while his FaceBook icon is a detailed drawing of a dragon. Freud would have a field day categorizing his neuroses. It wasn’t fame he sought, or even riches, he liked to wander as he had no roots after his parents died and he always had a Gypsy heart. 

The scrolls appear to be in good condition but he doesn’t touch. This was Balin’s area of expertise and he wouldn’t deny him his prize. He will, of course, offer his assistance now that his wandering had earned him Gandalf’s wrath. 

He waits for the library to clear before he approaches the table and finds Balin still reading the scroll, back bent as he does not trust the integrity of the stool. 

“Could I be of assistance?” He offers quietly and he fears too quietly as Balin continues to read. 

He casts his gaze upon Ori who offers him a tight smile. “No thank you, Bilbo.” Ori finally answers in Balin’s stead as the silence had become uncomfortable. He’s glad of the reply even if it was dismissive. He liked to think he knew when he was not wanted and now was certainly that time. He nodded in acquiescence and left the library and gazed forlornly at the entrance to the Grand Gallery. He wanted to see the throne again, just once, to put the niggling thoughts in the back of his mind to rest but Gandalf shakes his head as if reading his mind and he stays. 

The boys are seated on the golden floor talking amongst themselves as he sits beside Kenny. They offer him nods in acknowledgement before falling back into conversation and he takes it. He’s there but he’s not, he tended to play a secondary character in the story of his own life. He doesn’t mind, it is better than the alternative. 

The boys are discussing their share of the find and he doesn’t have the heart to tell them of the Heritage Act. The finders fee would still be substantial but far less than the frankly stupid money the boys bandied about. He plays with the ring around his neck as he turns his gaze towards the Grand Gallery once again. Something calls to him without a voice, like a siren to his soul.

“Bilbo…Bilbo… Oi Bilbo.” He snaps out of his reverie and finds five pairs of eyes on him as Nori, Dori and Bofur had joined them. 

“Hmm?” 

“What would you do with your share?” He reasons they were still discussing their spoils and shrugs noncommittedly. 

“Pay a few bills?” He offers. “Treasure doesn’t really interest me.” He ignores Nori’s scoff and instead stares into the boys’ surprised faces. 

“Oh yeah?” Bofur challenges. “Then why do you wear that ring around your neck? You never take it off.” He doesn’t miss Nori’s glare towards Bofur but pretends that he does. Instead he looks down at his fingers clutching the ring. 

“It’s a family heirloom,” he answers dishonestly. It isn’t entirely a lie; his father had given it to him claiming it had been passed down from father to son for generations and he believed it. Only, later he would learn that was possibly correct, it just wasn’t his family. Both of his parents had been adopted at birth and knew nothing of their biological parents. His father had witnessed his love of history and ancestry and had gone into the local antique shop and bought the ring claiming it to be a family heirloom. 

Not much later he had found the receipt and a month after that his homework was to discover his family tree and he found it was no more than a stick. He pretended to be oblivious as his father looked upon him with sad brown eyes that spoke of betrayal. He didn’t see it that way, and still didn’t. His father said it was an heirloom and so it was an heirloom, an heirloom had to start somewhere after all. 

He knew the ring had value, his father had paid one thousand pounds for it; no small fee but later he would realise it was greatly under-priced. He refused to have it valued in his respect for his father. He didn’t want the truth to mar the loving act and knowing its true value might make him want to sell. He doubts he would, even living in his box London flat but the ring had been betrayed before and Lord knew he owed Gandalf a great debt. 

The conversation moves on to schooling and he listens politely but not too keenly as Nori explains how his heart lay in cinematography. He had been studying film and media at Nottingham University when a position on Ori’s archaeology team opened up and he could not refuse his baby brother anything. Dori was the same, with several passable GCSEs he had foregone further education to raise both Nori and especially Ori after their mother was diagnosed with cancer. When she passed, Dori’s attention zeroed in on Ori as a coping mechanism and though he had no interest in archaeology he came as a package deal with Ori. 

He already knows Bofur’s past and he doesn’t want to stir Nori’s ire so he nods occasionally with his eyes averted. The boys are entertained by his story and make up for his lack of response with laughter and probing questions.

Gandalf joins them soon after and regales them with fanciful tales of a childhood he never had. He hides his smirk from the others and wonders if they buy Gandalf’s cock and bull story, he knows he did when he had first heard it. It’s a strange thing to lie about but Gandalf tended to be wishy-washy with details so he put it down to being another one of his eccentricities. 

The boys speak next, sharing the same past they speak over each other and finish each other’s sentences. It’s quite the double act and he listens enthralled and is surprised to learn that the boys are not wealthy. Their parents had the foresight to save for university but there was not much left for anything else and the boys truly were burning through their student loans as young lads tended to do. 

He also learns that it was no coincidence that it was the boys who had discovered Erebor as accidental as it had been. 

“It started as a theory,” Freddy explains and pulls out an A4 sheet of paper with a hand-drawing of the Durin coat of arms while Kenny produces a map of the southern alps from his backpack. “The seven stars of Durin represents the kingdoms but also his rebirth. His seventh reign would be his final, as it is destined, mapped out, written in the stars.” 

“So, it got us thinking,” Kenny continues pulling out a piece of tracing paper. “if it’s mapped in the stars maybe it’s mapped on the earth.” He says tracing the seven stars onto the tracing paper. He places the tracing paper over the map and the gathered look surprised as the second star covers Gundabad and the fifth is slightly away from Khazad-dûm. “We came here to find the exact sigil as we believe it is the only correct map.” He looks down again and sees that the third star is slightly off Erebor giving the statement some validation. 

“The only problem is when we got here the sigil got mixed up in Māori artefacts and is now touring New York.” Freddy adds. 

“So, we got this idea to climb Mount Gundabad and see if we could see a pattern and where to look to next.”

“But then Kenny decides that we should climb Mount Cook seeing as there was less people this time of year.”

“Because it’s dangerous.” He adds and is met with two false astonished expressions. 

“Yes mum. Anyway, we thought we had worked out where Orcarni was and then there was the rock slide and the tunnel and you know the rest. Mister Greenleaf will be kicking himself, he said we were mad thinking we had found Orcarni and then we discover Erebor.”

“Greenleaf? Thranduil Greenleaf?”

“Yeah, he was our teacher in Oxford.”

“Small world,” Gandalf says around a cloud of smoke. 

“We were in _that_ class.” Kenny whispers, leaning forward. 

“What class?” Dori asks oblivious. 

“Haldir was our classmate.” Freddy informs him but Dori remains oblivious. “You don’t know the story?” Dori shakes his head, no. “It was a huge scandal, Thranduil ran off with him. He was married with four children, a biological son from a previous marriage and three adopted kids and his husband was hot, I mean supermodel hot, I would.”

“So would I,” Kenny nods in agreement. 

“Bilbo did.” Nori adds spitefully and the venom in his tone reduces the gathered to silence. “Thranduil was your mentor for years, how long were you lusting over his husband?” He scoffs at the accusation and shakes his head but offers no reply. It wasn’t like that, this was just a mindless accusation made by an insecure boyfriend and he wouldn’t validate his lies with a response. “With friends like you who needs enemies?” Nori continues, clearly having a lot to say for himself. 

He shakes his head and stands up. The atmosphere is overbearing and he will not sit and be vilified for things he hadn’t even done. Not today and certainly not here. “Truth hurts?” Nori carries on despite Bofur elbowing him in the ribs. 

He won’t respond, confrontations were not his forte and his head was beginning to hurt. “You’re a fucking snake in the grass. All butter wouldn’t melt but I can see right through you.”

“Okay that’s quite enough,” Gandalf intervenes. 

“It’ll be enough when that little prick leaves, what does he even do, apart from servicing you?” Gandalf stands outraged and Dori begins to chastise his brother and this is what he wanted to avoid. The blow-up and choosing sides, the causalities of war have always outweighed the original dispute and he can’t have that on his conscience. It is a minor issues and sides are already being taken and he can’t bear it. He’ll wait for tempers to simmer and leave tomorrow but for now he needed some space. 

He walks off towards the Grand Gallery and hears Gandalf calling after him, telling him not to go, that it is dangerous. He knows as much but he needed to be alone in the dark with his thoughts; he wants to disappear if only for a moment. He looks towards the stairs considering returning to the throne but decides against it. He can’t face the throne knowing the unrest he had caused, it would be wrong of him to find solitude when he has brought nothing but trouble to the team. 

He ventures right and walks faster as voices are raised in the King’s Gallery. A simple spark had turned into a wildfire and he can’t be responsible for that. He takes off running into the dark too lost in his own emotions to concern himself with common dangers and in the bleak darkness where the light does not shine, the floor gives way beneath his feet and he screams as he falls into the hidden chasm.


	7. Chapter 7

_He shouldn’t be here. The Sons of Durin had a fearsome reputation and each missive from his clan begging for an audience with their king had gone unanswered. No answer was an answer and yet their plight was too severe to be ignored. It had started small in the beginning, a few crops stolen here and there, nothing to greatly disturb their harvest. Then some chickens went missing, later, a cow and then some sheep, nothing too substantial as they had allowed for natural death and animal attacks. It soon escalated as they continued to bury their heads in the sand until too much had been taken that not only were their livelihoods at stake but their very lives were too._

_They had sent the first missive, carefully worded and by raven since the king was so very fond of them. It had gone unanswered, so they had sent another- less carefully worded and so on and so forth, the wording in the letters becoming increasingly desperate. The last missive they sent was folly, sheer folly-the truth- but foolish of them to say, or rather accuse due to lack of evidence. Their field of wheat had been burned as a consequence and now the winter looked bleak._

_The villagers were starving, so from the remaining healthy villagers in the lowlands it was he who was chosen to journey to Erebor. They had said they had chosen him for his calm nature and logical thinking but he knew it was only because he had no family in the village and his death wouldn’t be counted as a loss. He had agreed readily enough given their dire straits and he was always curious about Durin’s folk with their warrior braids, long hair and even longer beards. It was said that their beards were only cut upon defeat and that the King’s beard was so long he could tuck it within his belt._

_Some of the tales of the Great King Thorin Oakenshield were farcical, the boasts of a man with no equal, who could make outlandish claims without fear of rebuttal. He did not doubt that he was a great warrior but to claim to have wielded a branch that staved off dragon’s breath and thus earned him the name Oakenshield was a stretch for anyone’s imagination._

_Still, he would not address these shameless claims as he very much needed the King’s aid. He may not wield a flame-resistant branch but he did have the Arkenstone within his possession giving him divine rule upon the Seven Kingdoms. None, but he could stop the raiders as he had it on good authority that it was the Gundabad tribe, as he had seen their shaven heads as they disappeared into the night. It had been his idea to name them in their last missive and clearly a mistake as they came down from the mountains once more to torch their fields._

_The security in Erebor is lax, those that do stand guard seem preoccupied looking over their shoulders making it easy for him to pass by unseen. It is not something he wants to do but the king has left him with little choice. If he were to announce himself at the gate Thorin could still turn him away but to beseech him face to face he was sure that if the king was in possession of a heart he would surely be moved by his plight._

_Passing through the poorly guarded door, he is immediately overwhelmed by the magnitude of the room and the people within it. It is far more extravagant than he could have ever imagined and he enters slack-jawed and head tilted back eyeing the carved vaulted ceiling. The sky is dark outside so no light shines through from the ramparts but the hall is illuminated by several torches bathing the room in a rich golden hue._

_His awed presence goes unnoticed as the hall is filled with people, some laughing and talking but most dancing to the beautiful melody of a harp. The atmosphere is welcoming, Erebor is in celebration though he knows not why. He ventures further into the room and his stomach groans as the smell of meat assaults his nostrils. There are tables upon tables laden with food and he swallows his outrage as his village starves._

_In his heart he knows the feast is not in jest of those less fortunate, happy times have fallen upon Erebor and no one knew of his quest. He won’t begrudge them and nor should he for surely a happy Thorin Oakenshield was an agreeable Thorin Oakenshield. He moves ever closer to the dancers wondering if he could lose himself within their number. The dances were not dissimilar to the ones they practise on midsummer’s eve in his village but his attire sets him apart, threadbare cotton opposed to their heavy leather._

_As the harp stops his desire to dance ceases with it and he aborts his journey to the golden floor upon which they dance and walks towards one of the many tables. The smell of the roasted boar is intoxicating and his mouth waters at the thought of a single bite. He clutches his stomach and listens to the fiddlers play in synch and watches the dancers startled to see several females within their number. He blinks rapidly but his vision remains the same. The women were almost indistinguishable from the men from their broad and heavy physiques, to the leather and chainmail attire. The women in his own village were thin and fragile creatures and were always first to expire during a harsh winter. He can’t imagine these women succumbing to the same and he is in awe of them._

_“Which one has taken yer fancy then?” A booming voice echoes in his left ear and he startles, turning quickly to the ginger man beside him. He stands only a little taller than himself with broad shoulders and a heavy belly with an intricate braided beard that reached his sternum._

_“I shouldn’t be here.” He blurts and immediately slaps a hand over his mouth._

_His companion only arches a ginger brow and stuffs a morsel of food into his mouth. “That so?” There’s no suspicion in his tone but then his mouth is full and he frets._

_“I need to see the king,” he explains but does not elaborate._

_“A fine time you chose, he’s over there.” The man points to the back of the hall but the throng of dancers make it impossible to see even as he rises onto his tiptoes. “Stay awhile,” his companion continues clasping his shoulder. “Eat, drink and be merry, this is a time of peace after all.” He doesn’t know his companion but the offer of food was too good to miss._

_“I’m Bilbo,” he offers his name and turns to the table and eyes the feast with an insatiable appetite._

_“Gloin,” his companion returns and tears meat from the animal carcass. He mimics the action and stuffs meat into his mouth with both hands while Gloin laughs heartedly. He does not leave his side while he fills his empty stomach and for that he is grateful. After he has eaten his fill, Gloin passes him a cup of wine and they watch the dancers together._

_“You should join ‘em,” Gloin encourages him noticing his longing expression. He wants to but he is unsure. The Durin folk had been nothing but welcoming but he was still an outsider with an ulterior motive. Yet he had drank their wine and eaten their food, it would be wrong of him not to celebrate their joy._

_He nods, resolute, and passes his cup to Gloin and joins the end of the line on the right awaiting the next song. There are more men than women, as it was in his own village, and a frighteningly tall man with a bald head and brown bushy beard stands across from him. They won’t be partnered for long as the dance dictates and he bows to his partner as is custom and notices that despite the masculine appearance of the women they curtsey to their partners._

_The fiddlers begin to play a new song and he is engulfed in his partners arms and dragged around despite his best efforts to keep up. He laughs regardless of the awkwardness and his partner joins in his merriment before he moves to the next partner. Palm to palm they circle one another and move on to the next as they gravitate around the dancefloor._

_The dance leaves him feeling dizzy and the unaccustomed wine in his system makes him light-headed and warm. With flushed cheeks and a dazed smile, he leaves his current partner’s arms to commence the final three partner changes and raises his hand and a palm as hot as a furnace presses against his own. He does not move his hand for fear of showing disrespect but he looks up at his partner and into sapphire eyes and as they turn together, hand-to-hand, eye-to-eye, his world crumbles and he falls._

 

“Bilbo? Bilbo can you hear us? Are you okay?” He comes to with a groan of discomfort and turns his head to cough. The air is stagnant and thick with dust, and as he begins to cough fitfully his back spasms and he lays flat once more coughing into his fist. “I hear him! Over here!” He stares up at the hole he fell through and sees the beams of several torchlights cutting through the darkness as the team rush towards his location. 

“Help.” He calls out pitifully, so quiet no one could hear his cry. 

“I found it, bring in a rig! Bilbo, can you hear me?” Despite the hardhat, the back of his head took a knock on the stone beneath him and he can’t distinguish the voice. 

“Stay back!” Someone reprimands. Gandalf…Gandalf reprimands. “The ground is unsafe. Bilbo my boy, speak to me.” 

“Gandalf!” He calls out and begins to cough once more. 

“Bilbo! Are you injured?” 

“He sounds close,” another voice adds. He’s right. Judging from the distance of the strobe of light above him he had only fallen twelve to fifteen feet. He supposes he was lucky but the stabbing sensation in his lower back each time he moved made him doubtful.

“My back!” He shouts back, hoping against hope that the pain was only temporary. 

From above, the Grand Gallery fills with light and he is able to clearly see the hole he fell through. He assumes that the integrity of the rock had been compromised by the proximity of this chamber judging from the depth of the broken rock. 

A rope ladder is thrown down to him and he is glad of the darkness to hide his bemused expression.

“Climb,” Gandalf insists and with great discomfort, he manages to sit up. 

“There’s something down there.” One of the boys speaks. 

“What are you two doing?” Gandalf demands angrily as two single ropes drop through the hole and then the boys appear, abseiling into the cavern and being swallowed by the dark. “Get Bilbo and get back up here.” He can’t see the boys, only the lights in their hands that dart around the room before both rays land on him. 

“Gandalf there is something here.” Freddy. Freddy had been the one who was speaking. Their beams of light are crossed on his chest and he looks down at them as they begin to travel lower over the object he had landed on. “It’s a tomb!” A shiver runs down his spine. “Gandalf! We need more light!” 

“A tomb did you say?” Balin asks with his head poking through the hole. 

“Get Bilbo and come up.” Gandalf insists. 

“Gandalf, do you not understand the significance of this find?” Balin asks earnestly. “The great crypts are in the barren tunnels. Whoever is buried there was not meant to be found.” He wonders if the boys’ expression mirrors his own as a chill runs through him again. 

“Light, more light!” Gandalf announces.

“I’ll get my camera!” Nori shouts followed by Gandalf’s long-suffering sigh. 

Hands touch him in the dark and he slaps a hand over his mouth to stifle his shriek when he realises it is only the boys checking on him. They wait like that, as silent as the grave, a fitting comparison given their location. 

When the light finally pierces through the darkness, he has the boys help him to stand before they leave his side. The chamber he finds himself in is small and crudely designed lacking the elegance and architectural brilliance of the room above. Clutching his lower back, he steadily circles the stone sarcophagus and finds it plain. There are no accounts of past deeds depicted and where one would find a name nothing is written. 

He has a theory and he moves closer to the tomb as the boys’ attention is on something opposite the sarcophagus. “The prayer ritual has been chiselled off.” He speaks mostly to himself but his words earn him an audience as the boys come over to listen intently. “Whoever lies here was cursed not only in this life but in the next.” The boys look upon the tomb in awe as he investigates what had the boys so enraptured.

The chamber is sparse but before him stand two golden statues, one upright and the other fallen against the other, cracking them both. They remind him of the Terracotta Army given their full regalia and their frankly disturbing expressions that were to possibly scare looters away. 

He stares up at the hole willing Nori to hurry with the camcorder as his fingers itch to hold his own camera and snap shot after shot. He wrings his hands nervously while waiting impatiently. His heart is pounding, the blood rush deafening him to the boys’ hoots of joy followed by a trill of laughter. 

He turns none-the-wiser and reddens in anger as Kenny wields a curved blade with a fang pommel and Freddy defends himself with a hollowed oak branch fitted across his left forearm like a shield. An oak shield. 

“Stop!” He yells, louder than he had meant to. “Put them down, put them back, don’t touch them. Don’t touch anything!” The boys cower at the ferocity of his reprimand and return the items to the small table in the far corner while the team above ask questions about his outburst which go unanswered. “Gandalf! Gandalf!” He yells hysterical, his emotions beyond his control. 

“What is it?” Gandalf asks alarmed as he descends down the ladder and he can only point to the nameless tomb. 

“We’ve found him.”

“Found who?” The boys speak up, recovering. 

“Thorin Oakenshield.”


	8. Chapter 8

They all surround the stone sarcophagus, even Balin who had dared to venture down the rope ladder due to the significance of the find. Every shallow intake of breath feels like a minute but none had dared to voice their thoughts to disturb the oppressing silence. This isn’t a good place, it’s stifling and cold. His death was not a celebration of his life, this is further eradication of his own bloodline. It feels…wrong…there is a wrongness about all of this that scratches at the back of his mind. He wonders if the others feel it too or even smell the faint stench of death that still lingers after all of these years. 

“Let’s open it!” Kenny suddenly announces with a Cheshire-cat grin, moments before lunging at the stone along with Freddy. 

“Stop!” Gandalf bellows, voice so forceful everyone startles apart from the boys who instead freeze at his command. “We must leave this place.”

“Leave?” He asks at the very same moment Balin enquires the same. 

“There is a great evil that lies upon that tomb.” 

“Superstitious nonsense!” Dori decries coming to his brother’s defence as Ori seems shaken. 

“You’ve never been superstitious before.” He adds as he is itching to open the tomb. 

“And I am not now but even I would take heed of the incantations upon that tomb. They were thought to be powerful and meant a great deal to a lost people.” 

“I’ll risk it,” Kenny answers and his brother nods beside him. 

“You most certainly will not!” The fury in Gandalf’s voice makes him recoil as he has never seen the man so enraged. “Beyond curses there lies a king, fallen perhaps but a king nonetheless. We must leave and inform the proper authorities.” The team seem defeated, stood as they once did at the door that would not open, while he is riddled with confusion. 

This was the find that he and Gandalf longed for. There was nothing greater to find. His thoughts pause. Perhaps that was why Gandalf was baulking, the pinnacle of his career could very well spell the end of it. Stood in this claustrophobic tomb Gandalf had become aware of his own mortality. 

The team are quiet and forlorn as Balin asks Gandalf for a word in private. As an older gentleman, Balin’s word would hold more weight than his own. He couldn’t really offer any advice on the matter, no one gets out of this life alive. There were no guarantees. He could promise that however many years were left to him he would keep Gandalf’s memory alive. Given the impact he has had on the archaeological world, it was already a name that would not soon be forgotten. 

Despite their close proximity to the group he doesn’t overhear and not for lack of trying. After they have spoken he sees sadness etched on Gandalf’s face but there is determination in his eyes. 

“Don’t touch anything, the King has slept this long no need to disturb him now. I will be returning to the cabin. Go no further, and study only as far as we have come. Boys, do not open that tomb.” 

“Yes, Mr Gandalf,” the boys reply as one, heads lowered like scolded children. Gandalf takes his leave then, and climbs up the rope ladder casting one last long lingering look at the team or more than likely the tomb before leaving. 

“Well!” Balin announces with a clap of his hands assuming leadership. “Not sure about you lads but I want to make my stay here as short as possible. Boys, I want an itemised list of everything in this room along with a rough sketch of the layout. Bilbo, I want you to take pictures of everything. As back-up I want Nori to record everything and all that we do. Bofur, I need your expertise on the formation of this chamber and the collapsed rock. Ori, fetch my book and come with me. Dori, you’ll be our runner but for now, accompany me.” 

Despite the aggravation between himself and Nori, Nori had brought him his camera and the weight of it around his neck is a comfort. He approaches the two statues first, stunningly grotesque in all their glory. He zooms in on their golden faces, the upright one had his eyes squeezed shut but the one that had toppled over had one eye partially open and a blob of gold pouring in front of his right eye. Were they deterrents or simply defective? Thrown away like the king himself, jaws open in a silent scream as though aware of their fate. 

He takes picture after picture, full shots and then zoomed in marvelling at the intricacies of the craftmanship. He painstakingly takes pictures of the damage he did not do knowing they were more than likely going to be blamed for it. It was more than likely the earthquake or the constant shifting of the land that had caused one to topple and the purity of the gold had what had made it crack. There was a crack in the fallen one’s left cheek that had splintered around his left eye but the most damage was done to the upright one. There was a deep fissure in the top of the right shoulder that looked as if the arm would fall at any given moment. 

He takes his leave allowing Nori to record as he joins Bofur by the collapsed rocks. 

“Anything I need a picture of?” He asks looking over the rocks that clearly blocked the entrance of the chamber. 

“Oh aye, seems they threw ‘im in a hole and then threw away the hole. These rocks have been piled. Probably used the rocks from gutting this place. Crude, hasty, there’ll be uneven floorspace somewhere where they climbed out. This tomb isn’t in deference to the king, it’s malicious.” 

“Probably deserved it though.” Nori speaks up, coming over to them. “Son of a bitch killed his nephews and that’s what we do know, imagine what we don’t know.” Nori’s ire seems directed at the king rather than himself. Since he does not wish for it to be re-directed he snaps away, zooming in on the grooves of pickaxes on the stone giving Bofur’s theory validation. 

He goes to the rickety table in the opposite corner next and looks upon the sword and the shield. 

“The branch that staved off dragon’s breath,” he mutters to himself and chuckles and hears it echoed by Balin. 

“Dragon’s breath?” Balin asks, turning from the tomb. “Who told you that?” The question sobers him and leaves him stumped and so he shrugs. “Legend says he protected himself with an oak branch during the Blood Wars between Erebor and Gundabad when his camp was ambushed.” Balin informs him. “But I like your version.” Balin laughs and so he mimics him despite feeling light-headed and queasy.

_“I am an almighty King, have you not heard that my shield can stave off dragon’s breath?” Thorin boasts playfully, the evidence of his mirth sparkling in his eyes._

_“I had heard.” He replies curtly and continues to walk._

_“Are you not impressed?”_

_“Should I be?” He asks aloof with his eyes adverted knowing if he were to look at the king he would shame himself and fall at his feet in reverence._

_“I was rather hoping that you would be.”_

He sways unsteadily on his feet and his arm is caught on reflex but the grip is tighter than necessary and he can feel his skin bruise. He looks up and finds Nori before him and the look in his eyes steals his very breath. They are blue as they have always been but lighter than ever before, unbelonging and out of time. There is something ancient there, insidious and hateful and it recognized him. 

It was only for a moment but it felt like a lifetime, eternity trapped within a gaze but then it was gone. Nori loosens his grip, and checks to see if he is okay before filming as if nothing happened. Maybe nothing had. It might have been a trick of the light. He’d like to think that because the alternative doesn’t bear thinking about. 

He tries to calm himself and finds it difficult when all of his senses are telling him to run. The camera shakes in his trembling hands as he opts to stay. He takes some pictures and pauses to look through them finding them blurry from his constant shaking. 

“Bilbo when you’ve done that, I need you here.” Balin calls to him and he approaches unsure of what use he would be. “The prayer ritual has been removed, ruthlessly and there are no marks of past deeds. The tomb is without a name.” Balin dictates while Ori notes it down in his black leather-bound book. “Bilbo, could you take some pictures of the prayer ritual? I thought a chisel was used but on closer inspection I would assume a pickaxe.” He approaches the tomb and runs his fingers along the gouges in the rock. He’d thought a chisel as well but feeling the depth and girth of the holes, he would have to agree with Balin. 

“Who could have done this Mr Fundin?” Dori asks, polite as always. 

“I haven’t the faintest,” Balin replies. “After Thorin did what he did, no more is written. It is as if everything just stopped and the people vanished and were forgotten. Whoever buried him had no love for him, I daresay they detested him. This tomb was never meant to see the light of day.”

“Is this tomb significant?” Nori asks. 

“More than you’ll ever know.” Balin answers. “This changes everything. It is said Thorin Oakenshield died in his hoard, greedy and mad. Yet here he is, forgotten and cursed. Gandalf was right to contact the proper authorities, this find- the historical significance is beyond all of us. We’ll collect what we can and then return to the Gallery of the Kings.” 

He takes the pictures Balin requested and is happy to climb out with only a twinge in his lower back from his fall. He immediately fills his lungs with air not as fresh as he would have liked but fresher than the stagnation and rot he was breathing in before. His stomach chooses that moment to groan and he suddenly remembers he had not eaten for some hours. 

They don’t have a designated chef. That role was usually for Bofur’s brother Bombur but he had retired last winter and the role hadn’t been filled since. He knows his way around a kitchen and so he adopts the role of chef and collects the cooking utensils. The boys have built a fire and encircled it with fallen rocks by the time he comes over with a disposable BBQ, tongs and sausage links. He takes a light from the fire and lights the BBQ and waits for the others to join them. 

As the others slowly filter through, he is bombarded with requests and then left to do it alone while Balin, Ori and Dori return to the library and Nori and Bofur go off somewhere together. The boys keep him company though they probably do not realise as they both lay on the floor nearby sketching. 

It takes some doing but he manages to get everyone’s meal done at the same time and calls to the others. They take their tins gratefully and sit around the campfire. 

“We’ve just found out why Erebor is called the Lonely Mountain.” Balin announces while taking his seat. He leans forward, curious. “In its time it was said to be the only mountain to penetrate the highest cloud where the Maker sat. It appears that Erebor was never known as the Lonely Mountain, it was called the Only Mountain.” Bilbo shakes his head amazed. He’d always thought it to be an odd name, more so since finding it and all because of a poor translation or Chinese whispers. 

The conversations among them continue but he finds the topics mundane and only catches snippets of conversation. He doesn’t mean to be rude but with a warm meal in his belly fatigue sets in and his eyes feel heavy. He excuses himself and retrieves his sleeping bag and as he rolls it out he watches the others follow suit. All except for Balin who ventures off turning each of the lighting rigs off to preserve the fuel. 

He wonders if he’ll feel scared in the vast hall with only a fire for light but it is a needless thought as the moment his head touches the pillow sleep claims him. 

 

 _People are beginning to talk. They whisper for now. They watch him with contempt in their gazes. They know. He shouldn’t be here, he should never have come. He will leave on the morrow._

_They are watching him now. They are watching him still. Their knowing glances make his skin crawl. The King approaches and the staring intensifies. He had thought that they were careful and discreet but seeing the king’s expression brighten and knowing his own expression must mirror it, they had not been discreet at all._

_He loved the king, but his love was forbidden, Thorin was promised to someone else. The heart could not understand, the heart wanted what it wanted. Thorin was his moon while he was the stars, by day they could not exist but at night they reigned over the sky and basked in their own magnificence._

_But the sun still rose the next day and chased them away._

_Thorin’s brows furrow and a look of worry crosses his handsome face._

_He should have never tasted his lips. He should not know the feel of his hard body against him. He had tasted the forbidden and become addicted but it must end. The affair cannot continue. The people suspect. He might suspect._

_They had gone no further than stolen kisses in the moonlight and they can go no further. It breaks his heart to turn from the king and fearing he might succumb to temptation he begins to run._

_“Bilbo!”_

 

Bilbo awakens with a start and sits up immediately wincing as his back spasms from the movement. The fire is down to burning embers with not enough light to reveal those asleep by the fire. He rubs at his eyes no longer tired and lays back down. 

“Bilbo.” His name is whispered in a voice he had only heard in his dreams. He sits up and fumbles for the torch at his right and winds it up. 

Quietly, he stands and steps away from the group before turning his torch on. 

“Thorin?” He whispers and feels entirely ridiculous. “Thorin?” He tries again, walking towards the Grand Gallery. It was just a dream. He had allowed his imagination to run away from him. 

A sound.

He pauses. 

Scratches. 

“Thorin?” He winds his torch and approaches the hole. 

The scratching intensifies. 

Heart pounding, he inches closer to the hole. 

The scratching stops. He musters his courage and shines his light down the hole upon the tomb and clutches his heart in shock and relief. 

“You miscreants,” he scolds in a whisper as Kenny and Freddy look up at him innocently. “What do you think you are doing?” 

“Oh come on, you want to open this tomb as much as we do.”

“Gandalf said…” he begins.

“Gandalf isn’t here.” Freddy interrupts. 

“Just a quick peak, we were here first.” Kenny adds petulantly and he can understand his frustration. 

He descends down the ladder and stands beside the tomb. 

“Just a quick peak.” He agrees and is met with two Cheshire-cat grins as he places his hands on top of the stone lid. “Ready? one, two, three.”


	9. Chapter 9

“One…two…three.” He counts down and together they push with all of their strength. 

He had imagined some resistance, and because of this he had planted his feet firmly on the ground and bent at the knees while pushing forward using his weight to his advantage. His strength is often overlooked because of his height and whether by the boys overcompensating for his perceived weakness or simply excited; their combined effort is too much. 

The tomb was deceptive. The stone lid appeared heavy and to one man it would be too much but to three overzealous men the stone shifted easily, sliding from the coffin to crack onto the floor. The boom from the lid colliding with the floor sounds like a small explosion and echoes in the secret chamber. It is enough to awaken the team as he can hear their confused shouts as he shares a nervous contrite look with the boys. 

The blood rushing through his veins is deafening and his feet feel as though they are encased in cement as he awaits his punishment like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. The boys look equally as guilty but they had age on their side and lacked experience while he could not claim the same. He should have known better. He did know better and now because of his arrogance- his sense of entitlement- an ancient artefact was destroyed. 

From above, light spills in through the hole as the rig is turned on. He tilts his head back to look up at the team surrounding the hole and his eyes connect with Balin’s disapproving blue ones. He opens his mouth to utter an excuse but then thinks better of it and closes his mouth. This was no folly of youth, it was selfish intrigue. 

“Bofur, Nori, get the equipment. Ori bring the book.” Balin orders as the consummate professional that he is. It makes him feel so much worse. 

Despite his age Balin climbs down the ladder once more, a task he clearly doesn’t relish and it is all Bilbo can do not to assist him. He’s done enough and no amount of brown-nosing can fix the mistake he has made. It wasn’t illegal but he might be faced with a hefty fine or more than likely be forced to forgo his finders fee as one can’t draw blood from a stone. 

“Need I ask?” Balin says, walking towards him. 

He owes the man an explanation but he fears all he has are weak excuses. “This was my fault,” he admits and notices the boys appear shocked by his confession. “I take full responsibility.” 

Balin nods once. “Can I ask why you did this?” 

“Gandalf…” that was a poor excuse. “Gandalf is contacting the proper authorities. By doing this he has rescinded his rights on the find and has made my role obsolete as well as the team. Even you, Balin, will suffer from this although due to your expertise you may later be recalled. I wanted this for them,” he says pointing behind Balin to where the boys stood. “I wanted this for me as well. How many times have you had a find stolen from you? Kenny and Freddy won’t even be a footnote in the history of Erebor because of Gandalf’s actions. They deserve this.” His voice wavers with emotion and tears prick his eyes. He hadn’t meant to become emotional but tensions were high and he had just destroyed something of historical importance. 

Balin simply looks at him with an unreadable expression before a small smile corrupts his poker-face. “What’s done is done, let’s take a look, shall we?” He asks mischievously with a wink of his right eye. 

Since the accident he had forgotten all about the king and he nods, comforted by Balin’s acceptance of his actions. He approaches the tomb with bated breath and takes a moment before looking inside. 

The skeletal remains of King Thorin Oakenshield, heir of Durin and second of his name is a sad sight to see. The skeleton was approximately six feet in length and was dressed in chainmail and well-preserved leather. The positioning of his body was crude and unbecoming of a man of his station. His deeds as a warrior were well known but his hands were by his sides instead of clasping his sword, robbing him of honour long after death. The positioning of his legs was also curious; instead of elongated both kneecaps were facing left as if he had been curled into a very loose foetal position. 

Most shocking of all was the positioning of his head. Without a crown it too was turned to the left and his mouth was open as if he had died screaming. A chill runs down his spine and he steps away from the tomb as the boys gather closer. 

“I thought he had the Arkenstone.” Kenny mutters, putting to bed another fable. 

He had noticed the absence of the stone but gave it no more thought than that. The king lay without his sword and without his crown, so they would not honour him with the treasure of his house. They had not honoured him at all. The only treasure within the tomb were two rings adorning skeletal fingers, one gold and the other silver. He had caught a glimpse of gold around his neck and several silver beads were scattered by his neck and shoulders. He had most likely died wearing them and instead of divesting him of his meagre possessions they were quick to carve this chamber and throw him away, discarded, forgotten. A blemish on the Durin history that needed to be eradicated. 

Balin takes his leave of the tomb to crouch beside the shattered lid, worrying his lower lip between his teeth as he eyes the broken prayer ritual. 

“Look at his hands.” Freddy exclaims. 

“Bet he hid the Arkenstone.”

“What is wrong with his hands?” He interrupts and reluctantly approaches the tomb once more. 

“He was tortured. They broke all of his fingers.” He looks inside the tomb once more convinced he could never erase the memory of the empty eye sockets and parted jaw from his memory. He had caught sight of the rings but he hadn’t paid much attention to the fingers and he finds to his disgust that the boys were correct. The distal phalanx in each finger is fractured as if they were bent backwards. 

“I don’t think he was tortured,” Balin speaks up, holding a piece of the shattered prayer ritual in his right hand. Having gotten all of their attention, he turns the stone in his hand revealing scratches on the other side. 

“He was buried alive.” Kenny says what they were all thinking. 

“The king was murdered and someone went to great lengths to cover it up.” The anger in Balin’s tone takes him by surprise and he looks at the older man curiously. To be buried alive was a ghastly death and even he is unnerved by such an ending for the king but Balin seemed too moved, to invested, as if he knew much more than he was letting on. 

Before he has chance to give it more thought the others arrive and they begin to document everything. Yet as he takes his pictures he watches Balin out of the corner of his eye as his suspicion has been stirred.


	10. Chapter 10

Gandalf often told him that he was a fantasist and a fair amount of school reports claimed the same. Unfocused with an active imagination is what they had written. He had scoffed at their words then but he was beginning to believe them now. It would certainly explain why he was stalking Balin and poorly at that given the curious looks from over moon-rimmed spectacles he had received. Yes, Balin had become enraged by the treatment of the King but maybe that was just because Thorin was a King. He can remember becoming quite heated himself when they had found King Richard the Third’s remains in a car park. 

Since the discovery of Thorin Oakenshield and the reality of his demise, Balin had done nothing further to stir his suspicion. He had simply retreated to the library to look over the scrolls and every once in a while, he would lift his head and gaze at him as if he were the one with something to hide. 

He fears that he may be right. How can he tell Balin or anyone else for that matter, that Erebor is familiar to him as though he has been here before? How can he entertain thoughts of reincarnation when he believes in the afterlife? How could he explain the dreams or the voice that calls to him without them thinking he was mad? 

Maybe it is the thin stagnant air that is driving him mad. The others may have succumbed to the same but he does not know how to address the situation. The boys would be the most forthcoming but they were mischievous and would likely make up a story than tell the truth. He had no communication with Ori and Dori and Nori made conversation with Bofur a hardship. That left Balin, a man he had grown suspicious of and had shamelessly followed like a bumbling dolt of a detective. 

He had never felt so removed from a group before. Without Gandalf to anchor him he tended to drift on a plane of existence all of his own. Unbound but trapped. Fractured but whole. Here and not. 

He abandons his pursuit of Balin deeming it juvenile and beneath him and begins to absently wander. Without thought his feet naturally take him towards the Grand Gallery as if an invisible tether binds him to the throne. He stops short of the passageway unwilling to go further and endanger more artefacts after the fiasco with the sarcophagus. He refused to be the next Howard Carter, whose greed for gold forever threw doubt over Tutankhamun’s demise. 

“It’s not natural, none of it!” He hears Dori exclaim and hides himself behind the wall, out of sight and out of mind. “And don’t tell me you can’t feel it either, you haven’t been yourself since we entered this Godforsaken mountain.” 

“I told you it’s nothing.” Nori replies. 

“It isn’t nothing!” Dori argues, becoming heated. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Honestly, the way you spoke to Bilbo, he should have blacked your eye out, it is the least you deserved.” He strains to hear Nori’s response but it is mumbled and inaudible from his location. 

“He’s right you know,” Bofur adds. “He was looking forward to meeting you.” 

“I don’t know what it is, alright?” Nori shouts. “It’s just…” he pauses. “Sometimes, I look at him and I hate him.”

“What’s he done to you?”

“Nothing, that’s just it. I feel this hate towards him but it’s like it isn’t mine. It’s just there and it wants him gone.” Bofur laughs humourlessly. 

“Oh ha ha you’re having me on.”

“No, I’m not.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts mate, but points for trying.” 

“It’s this place, we should leave, something doesn’t want us here.” Dori adds.

Their conversation turns to whispers as they voice their suspicions and he leans forward straining to hear them. 

“Bilbo?” A voice sounds behind him and a hand clasps his shoulder forcing a startled cry to leave his mouth. He slaps a hand over his lips but his actions are too late as the whispering had ceased and three pairs of curious eyes were gazing in his direction. He turns quickly in a vain hope to hide but finds himself face to face with Balin. “Didn’t mean to startle you,” Balin apologises with a knowing look. He reminded him of Gandalf with his eyes that know too much and a mouth that said very little. 

“I was just…” he doesn’t finish as he knows he has been caught eavesdropping. “Can I help you with anything?” He asks, changing the subject. 

Balin becomes silent and pensive. “I was reading one of the scrolls. It was a tale of Thorin Oakenshield, then just a prince, a boy really. It says that the mountain was besieged by a dragon, a great worm by the name of Smaug. Thousands it killed, and the prince was next but he saved himself with and quote ‘a shield that staved off dragon’s breath.’” Balin pauses and looks at him seriously. “Until this day I have never heard that story, so I wonder how you came by it?”

“I’ve never heard it either.” He replies, honestly. 

“In Thorin’s tomb you said those very words.” His mouth gapes as he is lost for words. Yes, he had spoken those words but he had only repeated them. 

“Balin…” he begins willing to open up. 

“Oi you two get over here!” Bofur shouts and whatever spell had fallen over him vanishes and he closes himself off offering naught but a tight smile in recompense. 

He joins the others in the Grand Gallery with Balin following closely behind him and waits expectantly wondering why he was summoned. A second lighting rig had been positioned by the alcove that leads to the stairs to the throne and Bofur and Nori stand by it tampering with the controls. 

As the light comes on, he turns away, momentarily blinded and turns back when he hears Bofur’s low whistle. 

“Would you look at that.” Once his eyes have adjusted his breath is taken away by a thirty-foot statue made of solid gold. 

“The vain git.” Nori comments. 

He ignores the comment and looks his fill. The detail is not as intricate as the statues that watch over Thorin’s tomb but well done. Clearly a warrior King with a crown upon his head and a war hammer held within his hands. 

“That’s not Thorin,” he mutters to himself. Nori glares at him out of the corner of his eye making him feel like an intruder. There are no depictions of the Mad King so his theory is baseless and he deserves Nori’s scorn. He looks back up at the statue wishing he hadn’t spoken as he pretends to be invested in the intricately braided beard. 

“He’s right, you know.” Balin speaks up, after a fashion. It was a rather long delay and people had already made their minds up that he was a complete idiot. 

“Then who is it, if I may ask?” Dori asks and Balin approaches the base of the statue and shines his torch onto a shadowed area. 

“King Thror, Thorin’s grandfather.” 

“When did you learn to read Khuzdul?” Bofur asks him and he shrugs in response. In actuality he can’t read Khuzdul but to admit that would open a line of questioning that he simply wasn’t comfortable with. 

“I’ll get my camera,” Nori announces, stepping between himself and Bofur.

“We need to stay together,” Dori insists seemingly spooked. 

“We’ll get the equipment and meet back in here.” Balin offers to calm Dori. 

Ori is still in the library, but the boys are nowhere to be seen. “Where’s Freddy and Kenny?” He asks and the others look around and shrug. “I’ll find them.” He offers as the others appear disinterested and anxious to retrieve their equipment. 

He has an inkling as to where they might be and as the others leave the Grand Gallery, he walks to the opposite end towards Thorin’s tomb. It is quiet and he fears he may be mistaken but as he reaches the cusp of the chasm and peers down there the boys stand, side by side staring at the remains of the king. 

He doesn’t announce his presence and climbs down the rope ladder and immediately covers his nose. “Eww!” He cries, disgusted by the smell. 

“Kenny!” Freddy teases and Kenny splutters helplessly. It isn’t flatulence but the stench of decaying flesh that assaults his nostrils. An obnoxious, overwhelming smell and one you are unlikely to forget. He assumes it must have been released when they had opened the sarcophagus and though he remembered the smell faintly before it seems to have become more potent. 

The boys don’t seem to mind or notice as they continue their observation of the King. He can understand their intrigue but he wonders how long the boys have been here and why their attention is so focused. It unnerves him how subdue they appear. 

“Do you think he suffered?” Kenny breaks the silence as he comes to stand the opposite side of the tomb. There’s a touch of sadness in his voice that makes him want to lie. 

“Not for long,” he says instead, minimalizing the horror of Thorin’s final moments. “Five minutes at most.” He guesstimates. Once sealed, Thorin’s oxygen had been cut off and given his fight and the open jaw he had screamed and exerted himself. He knew his time was short and he did not want to die. Five minutes may seem short but he knows five minutes could last a lifetime. 

He’d tried to placate them but their ashen faces are still sad. It is probably the first dead body they had ever seen and given the horrific circumstances of his death anyone would be shaken by it. He wants to offer more words of comfort but the smell is putrid and he can feel himself gag.

“We should get back to the others.” He suggests while covering his nose with his shirt. The boys nod and then pause as something rattles in the corner. They all look over at the table and watch as the sword and shield shift on the rattling table and then the ground trembles beneath their feet, knocking them down to the ground as a loud indescribable sound permeates the air. 

“Was that an earthquake?” He asks as the ground stills.

The boys share a look with one another. “Dragon!”


	11. Chapter 11

“Bilbo?” Balin’s voice cries from above. 

“Down here!” He answers and climbs to his feet. 

“Are the artefacts safe?” Balin asks peering into the hole and he looks around. The statues remain the same, one toppled against the other but the fissure in the shoulder could possibly have splintered. He would need his camera for reference. Thorin remains undisturbed and the boys had clutched the table legs when they had fallen preventing the sword and brittle shield from falling to the ground. 

The putrid smell, however, has intensified. 

“All seems fine, we’re coming up.” He announces and helps the boys to their feet and herds them towards the rope ladder. In truth he fears the right statue will lose an arm and despite the smell he intends to return to document the damage. 

Once the boys climb out, he follows and is immediately surrounded by the team. 

“What have you fella’s done now?” Bofur teases. 

“It wasn’t us this time,” Kenny defends himself and poorly at that. 

“What was that noise?” He asks. 

“It came from over there.” Ori answers and shines his torchlight into the darkness. 

“Let’s go,” Kenny eagerly calls but Nori grabs his arm and stills his movement.

“Gandalf said we should go no further.”

“Gandalf isn’t here,” Freddy intervenes and releases his brother from Nori’s grip. The group is seemingly torn between direction and curiosity and all eyes turn to Balin. 

“Well,” he answers their beseeching looks. “No harm in looking.” He answers mischievously and only Dori and Nori seem disheartened by his decision. “We’ll take the equipment with us so they’ll be no mishaps.” He adds with a pointed look towards him. It isn’t scolding but rather teasing and he returns the look with a sheepish smile. 

They retrieve their equipment from the base of the statue of King Thror and turn the second lighting rig illuminating their way to the next hall and beyond. It is at least a quarter of a mile to reach the double doors and they stay closely together, with their torches pointed to the floor looking for fissures in the rock. If King Thorin was hidden, who else might be? The ground could be a potential landmine of hidden tombs and compromised rock. 

Conversation is muted as they carefully venture across the hall and come to a halt at the double iron doors. They share questioning looks amongst themselves unsure if to advance or to stay. Gandalf had thrown a spanner in the works in regards to their find. He tended to be wishy-washy at the best of times but he had never abandoned them before. It was unprofessional and extremely out of character. 

“Were they giants?” Ori asks looking up at the huge iron doors. 

“Over-compensating I should think.” Dori answers.

“Napoleon complex.” Bofur says between fake coughs. 

“If the door opens we go through, if not we turn back, are we agreed?” Balin asks sensing the unease within the group. He had not found a mechanism to open the doors so their journey could very well have been made in vain. 

They nod in agreement and as one they push on the left-hand door. Age has rusted the hinges and iron shavings get onto his hands as he pushes with the others. The door eventually relents with a groan of defeat and opens two metres and no more, wedging itself firmly by the morphed rock. 

He wipes his hands onto his trousers and winds his torch when he hears Ori’s stuttering breath. “There’s light.” Ori utters and points to the gap with a shaking hand. 

“Fire.” Balin answers with a nod. Numerous questions come to mind but none worth asking as the answers would be unknown until they entered the hall. “I won’t ask you to come with me. None of you signed up for this.” Balin offers selflessly and the boys scoff in response and slips through the door into the hall. Concerned for their welfare he follows after them and Balin follows him and the others follow suit, one after the other until they are altogether once more. 

“Wow!” The boys whisper amazed as they look around a forge with three thirty-foot furnaces, the first of which is ablaze and their source of light. The group disband to look and document while he looks up at the pulley system of iron crates full of rock. It appears as if they had just stopped, mid-job. It reminds him of the library as there is no finality, the job had not been finished. The people just disappeared and their knowledge seemingly died with them as they were advanced in mining and smithing. 

He’s brought out of his musing as Balin returns to him shaking his head troubled. He’s muttering to himself, perplexed, but he can’t make out of the words. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“These furnaces are stone cold. There’s no fire hot enough to set them ablaze.” 

“Dragon!” The boys supply from where they were poorly eavesdropping. 

“Oh well that explains everything.” Balin says sarcastically. “There are no dragons, they are a myth.”

“To be fair, Erebor was a myth until a few days ago.” He adds in defence of the boys. He doesn’t understand his need to protect them but he felt drawn to them in a fatherly capacity and it was something he had never felt before and he wished to explore it further. 

“Do you honestly believe that there is a dragon within this mountain?” Balin asks plainly. 

“No.” His imagination only goes so far. 

“No.” The boys parrot his answer and he was glad of it. Their dry sense of humour often confused him as he couldn’t decide whether they were speaking fact or fiction. 

“Hmm,” Balin muses whilst toying with his white forked beard. “Why that furnace?” He hadn’t discovered how the furnace ignited, so his mind hadn’t even begun to consider if there was a reason for a certain furnace to ignite. Balin is suspicious. Possibly suspicious of them. Who else could have done it? How and for what reasons remain a mystery. 

There are stone steps to the left of the ignited furnace that lead to a narrow shelf cut into the rock. If he were to climb them he could potentially see what was within the furnace. “I’ll go up there,” he tells them as the shelf is only large enough for one person. “See what I can see.” He runs off before they can say a word and runs up the evenly carved steps, the depth of each is shallow suggesting they were made for someone of a smaller stature. 

Maybe the Longbeards were over-compensating. 

As he reaches the shelf his heart sinks as he could only see the lip of the furnace and no more. 

“What can you see Bilbo?” Bofur hollers to him.

“I need more height!” He shouts back and thinks about retreating. Selfishly he had wanted this find-whatever it may be- for himself. To the others it may seem insignificant and perhaps it was but he needed to prove himself. Reluctant to leave, he searches desperately for an avenue where he does not have to admit defeat and finds it at the very end of the shelf. With his left hand on the rock and right arm held out for balance, he makes his way over to the large protruding object in the wall. 

“Be careful!” Balin yells at him and almost upsets his balance. He pauses long enough to deliver a salute and continues on his way. The object that had caught his attention is a large beam of oak protruding from the wall at waist high. He touches the wood and finds it solid and reasons it could hold his weight. He steadies his nerves and climbs onto the beam remaining on his hands and knees. Once he is satisfied that the wood can take his weight, he awkwardly raises to his full height with jerky movements as his knees tremble. He keeps his balance by using the wall and looks once more. 

“It’s gold!” He yells. “Molten gold!” The others cheer from below delighting in the increase to their finder’s fee. He shares in their joy as they would all leave this venture millionaires. He considers climbing down and celebrating with the others but the bubbling gold is mesmerizing and he watches transfixed. 

He releases the wall and shifts along the beam for a better look when the beam starts to lower from his weight. “Balin!” The name has not fully left his mouth when four tunnels open in the upper rock from the mouths of carven heads and gallons of water spill into the forge. He jumps off the beam and tries to raise it to close the doors when he hears the ancient gears grind and the pulley system begins to move once more. It stutters at first but soon moves smoothly as if a thousand years had not past. 

Despite his best efforts the beam will not shift and he crawls to the edge of the shelf to look upon the destruction he had wrought. His breath catches in his throat as the team stare back at him, bemused but alive. He had feared the water would have swept them away but on closer inspection he can see the pools in which the water fell into to engage the four waterwheels which were responsible for the pulleys. 

He crawls along the shelf as he does not trust his legs and then chooses to run down the steps back to the team. 

“Are you always this clumsy?” Balin asks and he doesn’t have an answer for him. 

“If we drain the pool the pulleys will stop.” Dori shouts by the waterwheel as the water has stopped and the mouths have closed.

“Drain it where? Couldn’t we jam the wheels?” Nori asks and the team begin to discuss options. 

“One thing is clear; those pulleys need to stop. The integrity of the cable is questionable and we cannot endanger the system.” Balin reasons as their ideas are becoming outlandish. 

“What’s that?” Dori asks making them turn. 

“Oh, what now?” Balin sighs in frustration as molten gold pours from the furnace into a grove cut into the floor. 

“Let’s follow it.” The boys suggest and are met with nods which leave them slack-jawed. 

“Nori, I want you recording this.” 

“I haven’t stopped recording since we entered and a good job too.” Nori says pointedly with venom in his tone. He ignores him and follows along behind the boys who then notice him and pat him on the back and cast venomous glares back to Nori on his behalf. He doesn’t want to cause any discord but he appreciates their aide. 

The grove leads to the back of the forge and then disappears down into a tunnel. 

“So much for that then,” Kenny sulks. 

“Some stairs over here lads,” Bofur answers their prayers and they walk down the stairs. One flight, then two, further they travel beneath the forge and come out into another huge hall not unlike the Grand Gallery. They stay within arm’s reach of one another and shine their torches up to watch the molten gold pour into a thirty-foot hollow clay statue. 

As one, their torches shine from the crownless head down to thick eyebrows and a regal nose to a bearded mouth with lips quirked into a smirk. His beard is long, tucked within a thick belt and he wields a sword with an oak shield covering his left arm. The details matter little, as the face was enough. A face as familiar to him as his own, and one he thought he should only ever see in his dreams. 

“Thorin.”


	12. Chapter 12

He hadn’t realised he had said the name aloud until Balin gazed at him with a quirked eyebrow.

“Not this time.” Balin says with a shake of his head. Their torchlights continue downward to the very base but there is no name. 

“Who is it then?” Kenny asks, taking Balin’s word over his own. He understands, Balin is the historian and the Long Beards are his area of expertise but even so it rankles to be so overlooked. 

“I couldn’t say.”

“So, it could be Thorin?” Kenny challenges having not overlooked him as he had previously thought but instead he was coming to his defence once more. 

“Well…” Balin pauses in thought. “I could not say with any certainty that it is or isn’t. He wears no crown so I am of the opinion that it is not.” 

“But his shield.” Freddy adds. 

“In his time of need that shield saved his life and earned him his name. It is likely he furnished his garrison with such shields after the Blood Wars. This is possibly where they housed their garrison and this statue is to inspire or to honour their fallen troops. The lightening is poor and I do not like to guess. We should leave here and see about stopping those pulleys.” 

It is sound advice and one by one they turn towards the stairs leaving him to stare at the familiar face.

_“I told you I did not wish to be honoured in this way.”_

He pauses and turns around and shines his light into the darkness. There is nothing to illuminate as the voice was an echo of the past. Words spoken long ago. Words spoken to him. He has been fighting with himself, denying his visions and maybe he was mad but what if he wasn’t? There is history here, largely undiscovered and he had an advantage. If he were to use that advantage he could discover something paramount to the excavation and become an integral part of the team. Thus, ensuring his place on the next team. 

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes and frees his mind. 

Nothing happens from one breath to the next and he sighs in disappointment and opens his eyes. 

Light. The hall is illuminated with a burnt orange glow reflecting off finely crafted swords and jewel encrusted breastplates and shields

 _“I told you I did not wish to be honoured in this way.”_ Thorin says, standing before the clay mould with his hands firmly clasped behind his back. 

_“They appreciate your sacrifice._ ” His mouth frames the words but the words are not his own. 

Thorin smiles then, a small smile but sincere. _“A sacrifice I was willing to make._ ” He says with a solemn nod of his head and then looks away-timidly- as if he had revealed too much. 

He feels like a fraud, intruding on this private moment that was never meant for him. He tries to apologise but the words do not come out. Instead, he tries to leave but his feet do not move. He was stuck here, forced to play a role that was not his. 

Thorin didn’t look much like a tyrant. A king without a crown, he wore a long black leather surcoat and leather trousers with large furred boots. His beard was held in one long braid and his long raven hair fell down his back and curled at the ends. He was just a man. If he became a monster it was not now because he loved and he was loved in return. 

“Bilbo!” Bofur shouts and suddenly he is back within the dark hall and the vision of loveliness is gone. “Come on!” He wants to stay and find evidence of this hall being an armoury; but with the others gone his torchlight is dim and he rushes over towards the stairs where Bofur awaits. 

By the time they reach the others something has caused the team to be flummoxed as they speak animatedly with each other in the forge. He has half a mind to ask but the other half of his mind remains in the armoury looking into deep blue eyes willing to be lost in them forever. 

“Do you think a cable snapped?” He’s brought out of his reverie as Bofur eagerly offers a suggestion and accidentally knocks into him. The team look up which causes him to look as well and he realises that the pulleys have stopped. A good thing, but troubling. 

“I don’t hear anything.” Ori says quietly, timid or proving a point. It takes a moment for them to realise what sound is missing, and when it dawns on them, they make their way to the pools. 

“The water’s gone.”

“Gone where?” They approach the empty pool and look for the leak but the floor remains dry. 

“’ere lads!” Bofur calls. “It’s a funnel system. Water drains through here and collects in a chamber where it is then pumped up and reused.” 

“That is highly advanced.” He mutters. 

“Well, it isn’t the first time knowledge has been lost.” Balin answers and is met with quizzical expressions. “Look at Stonehenge, and Egypt. Even the Romans were advanced and their knowledge was lost. It appears that the Long Beards are victim of the same. A great shame.” His words are met with agreeable nods. “I think it wise we set up camp in here tonight and keep an eye on that fire.”

“Could we maybe…” he begins but soon loses courage. He’s been heard so he finds the strength to go on. “Visit that statue again?” It isn’t the statue he is interested in but rather the hall itself. He needs to know if what he is experiencing is supernatural or mental and he is not quite sure which he would prefer. 

“We’ve already gone farther than Gandalf suggested.” Balin answers with a stoic expression. “But what Gandalf doesn’t know can’t hurt him.” He adds with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. He’s more troublesome than the boys but he loves him for that. His carefree nature is refreshing and though he could and would never replace Gandalf, having Balin around made for a good second. 

They collect their food and sleeping bags and return to the forge and roast marshmallows in the dying fire. Conversation is minimal and he finds the perfect opportunity to pry into people’s experiences in the guise of campfire talk. 

“So, do you believe in ghosts?” He asks casually, directing the question at no one in particular. 

“No,” Bofur answers straightforward and abrupt. 

“No,” Dori answers next but with no certainty. Clearly a lie for his younger brother’s sake.

“Yes.”

“Yes.” Kenny answers right after his brother. 

“No.” Ori answers quietly. 

“Yes.” Nori answers. 

In truth, he had wanted more than a single worded answer. 

“How about you, Balin?” Kenny asks. 

“Yes,” Balin answers after a pause. “Yes I do. I’m not sure ghost is the exact term I’d use but I think when something horrific happens, say a murder, the area becomes stained. The area becomes emotionally charged, and some people see the scene repeat or feel the emotions. I’m sure you’ve all felt it at one time, entering a room, or even staying in a hotel and feeling emotions you know aren’t yours. Or, maybe I’m just a daft old sod and heard too many campfire stories.” He laughs then, making light of his own beliefs before someone else did. 

“So, is this place haunted, Balin?” Freddy asks eagerly. 

“It could very well be. If Thorin did what he did, his victims might seek justice.”

“Pretty sure they got it. Buried alive. I’d say poor sod but he probably deserved it.” His eyes narrow at Bofur’s words and he hides his scowling lips behind his hand. It’s foolish to defend Thorin but it is as equally foolish to blame him for crimes he possibly didn’t commit. 

“What about you, Mr Baggins? You asked the question but never answered.” Dori says and all eyes are on him.

“I think…” he begins. “I think the same as Balin.”

“Of course you do.” Nori scoffs causing Bofur to punch him in the arm. 

“I think when a strong connection is made, like love, that it defies death.”

“You’ve the heart of a poet Bilbo, I’ve always said so.” 

“Ok, but what about your household ghosts? Ones that met no grisly end? Explain them” Kenny asks. 

“Maybe they didn’t know they died and just carried on. Kinda like how a stupid person doesn’t know they are stupid and just carry on, _Kenny_.” Freddy says pointedly with emphasis on his brother’s name and the team laugh at his expense. 

“Excuse me,” Kenny says far too politely to be sincere. “I’m about to become an only child.” That said, he launches at his brother and they tussle on the ground. 

“Kill me and I’ll haunt you!” Freddy yells between breaths of laughter. 

“Kids.” Balin says with an amused smile. “Fiver on Freddy.” He laughs and watches the boys fight and places a ten pound bet on Kenny finally feeling as though he was a part of the team.


	13. Chapter 13

By the morning the furnace fire was out and the team had resorted to using their torches once more. The darkness had sparked another debate on whether they should go further and more hands were raised opposed to the idea. It was disheartening knowing that those teammates were opposed to the idea of moving the rigs rather than further discovery. It was the first time he had ever been truly disappointed with a team and he wondered why Gandalf had chosen these men. Their hearts were not in it, leaving their motivation questionable.

These were thoughts he could not speak aloud and instead he rolled his sleeping bag aggressively and pulled faces in the dark, expressing his unhappiness. He wished he had a little fire in his belly to stand up for himself but the strife it would cause was hardly worth the effort. He desired peace above all else, but for once he was in two minds whether to keep the peace or to discover more. 

“Don’t think I’m talking out of turn…” he overhears Dori say to Balin. “But, are we just going to ignore the fact that a thousand-year-old furnace started on its own?” It’s a good question, and Balin responds with a soft chuckle. 

“That’s supposing it started on its own, which it did not.” They talk by the furnace not five feet away from him. Balin momentarily places his hand onto the now cold furnace and then rubs his fingers together. “Black powder. I had my suspicions it had been used as an accelerant when I heard the explosion.” 

“Who could have done it?” Dori asks worriedly opposed to Balin’s calm demeanour. 

“The lads obviously.” Balin answers with a laugh. 

“Are you sure it was them?” Dori asks in a lower voice. The others have gone, and so he can only assume Dori believes he is eavesdropping and rightfully so. 

“What do you mean by that?” Balin says seriously without cheer in his tone. 

“I don’t…” Dori begins and then pauses to look around. He then takes one step closer to Balin. “I don’t think we are alone.” 

“Well of course not, Bilbo is right there.” 

“I don’t mean Bilbo, someone else is here.”

“Gandalf?” He offers now that his presence has been acknowledged. He drops the sleeping bag and approaches the two of them. “The boys mentioned a second team?” He tries again. They had been mentioned on the journey but no more had been said. “Locals?” 

“Gandalf reached an accord with them shortly after the boys left to collect you.” Balin informs him.

“It was like they were expecting us.” 

“Perhaps they were,” Balin says calmly. “There are many channels to go through before one can start an excavation. I imagine locals would be opposed to the idea of foreigners discovering even more of their heritage. Still, it’s not what you know it’s who you know and Gandalf has made all the correct contacts within the industry to cherry pick his digs.” It sounds underhanded when voiced but he knows it is the truth. 

“What is troubling you Dori?” He asks as the older man seems to fidget and fret. 

“We aren’t alone in this mountain. I heard footsteps last night when you were all asleep.” A shiver runs down his spine but Balin does not appear shaken. 

“It was probably the lads.” He says with a wave of his hand, dismissing Dori’s fears. “Speaking of which, they were supposed to help you pack the gear away. Where have they got to?” He can’t decide if Balin intentionally changed the subject or that he truly wished to know where the boys were. 

“They had breakfast and left.” He replies with a shrug. He had thought he had upset Balin since he had to make breakfast and pack away their supplies alone. 

“Well then, for that they can pack away the rest by themselves once they are found. You’re free to leave.” 

“Thank you.” He places his camera around his neck and takes his leave before Balin can change his mind. 

“Mr Fundin, I am not making this up…” Dori beseeches but he hears no more as he is out of earshot. He considers stopping and hiding in the shadows to listen but he has an inkling it will just be more of the same ramblings as before. Dori has been unnerved for some time and his campfire talk has only exacerbated the problem. If he had spoken of a voice, then he would have been intrigued but it appeared that their experiences were not the same. Perhaps both were born from a troubled mind as there was no evidence that either of their experiences were true. 

After seeing Dori’s fears easily dismissed he no longer desires to voice his own. He had no desire to be a laughing stock. He wasn’t a novice but it appeared his reputation had not exceeded him as this strange team underestimated him and did not value his opinion. Respect is earned and his conduct has been less than stellar so it is possible he is dwelling on nothing. 

His thoughts remain on the team, and disjointed and haphazard come to mind. The Smiths are a family unit, and are here because of Ori who was here as Balin’s Second. Despite his admiration for the man, Balin was another person that should not be present. He had not been on-site while Gundabad and Khazad-dûm were discovered, so why he is here now is unclear. Freddy and Kenny did discover the entrance but their part should have been no more than that. The only qualified member of the team is Bofur but even he should not be present due to his part in the Earth BioGenome Project. 

There was a method to Gandalf’s madness, he was sure of it, he just couldn’t quite see it. He shakes his head. He doesn’t like his train of thought as he found it too judgemental and self-righteous, as well as hypocritical. After all, it was he who had caused millions of pounds worth of damage on three separate occasions. 

His thoughts turn to the golden statue in the catacomb. This excavation was turning out to be a comedy of errors for himself and though he deserved much of the blame, he would not take responsibility for something he did not do. He checks the camera around his neck and winds his torch. 

He would document the damage until they were relieved of their duty since the team had left him with nothing more to do. Without Gandalf their search was hampered by red tape, and without the team’s full cooperation they could go no further. It was annoying being so close and yet so very far away. He wasn’t enamoured with treasure but to see the Mad King’s hoard would have been a sight to see. 

Still, he found Thorin Oakenshield whereas another team may have not. He had uncovered a one-thousand-year-old conspiracy and no one could take that away from him. He approaches the hole with a renewed sense of purpose and isn’t surprised to see the boys stood beside the tomb once again. 

He climbs down the rope ladder and immediately covers his mouth and nose with his shirt. The smell of decay has worsened and he looks at the boys who stand stock-still unaffected by the terrible stench. They simply look down at the remains of the King without a word. 

“Why are you two down here?” There’s accusation in his tone, but he reasons he is irritable due to the boys’ absence when they should have helped him. 

“I just…” Kenny begins without lifting his head. Apparently, he has no excuse as he says nothing further. 

Out of the two, Kenny is more vocal so he isn’t surprised when Freddy weakly shrugs his shoulders not even attempting to voice a reply. 

“What is that God awful smell?” He says aloud because the lads being quiet unnerves him. “Is he still…decaying?” He approaches the tomb and looks inside, bending over to get a better look. Bone, leather and chainmail. He avoids looking into the empty eye sockets or at the open jaw and retreats. 

The boys continue to behave oddly and he had no time for their antics. He approaches the statue and lifts his camera turning it on and quickly scans the memory comparing the damage. It is as he has feared, the fissure has grown at least two centimetres since he had last documented the damage. He takes one picture and then another before the camera beeps twice due to low battery and turns itself off. 

He sighs annoyed and turns back to the boys. “It’s too dangerous to be here. We must be careful and only venture down here when strictly necessary.” 

“But…” Freddy speaks up but the words die on his tongue. He isn’t quite sure what keeps bringing the boys back here but they couldn’t afford to endanger more artefacts. 

“Leave the King to rest in peace.”

“I don’t want him to be on his own.” He’s stunned, firstly because it was Freddy who had spoken and secondly because of the outlandishness of his response. 

“He won’t be on his own for much longer.” He answers in kind. He could have been cruel but he doesn’t have the capacity for it. The lads show no sign of moving which begins to annoy him. “We can’t afford to endanger his body.” He snaps. 

“Then maybe you should be more careful, you dropped your ring in his tomb.” Kenny replies smartly and his hand reaches for his throat in panic and he is soon calmed when his fingers touch the gold ring that hangs there. His sigh of relief gives Kenny pause and he eyes him strangely before looking into the tomb. “That’s your ring, isn’t it?” Kenny’s behaviour makes him nervous and he brings his ring to the light and turns it seeing a small dent on the side. There’s an inscription on the inside too faint to see and in respect to his father he had never tried to decipher the symbols. 

Assured that he was in possession of his own ring, he joins the boys by the tomb and looks inside. He had seen the gold around his neck once before but at this angle he could see the ring attached to it. Thick, solid gold, a match to the one he wore but that wasn’t saying much. 

It is wrong for him to reach his hand in, but there was only one way to find out if the rings were a match. He tries to control the tremor in his hand as the boys watch with bated breath. He stops mid-reach, crippled by self-doubt. Mentally, he can hear Gandalf berating him for allowing his imagination to run away from him. 

“This is stupid.” He tells himself and picks up the ring. 

_Sapphire eyes._

_A raven head with no crown._

_A hand as hot as a furnace holding his own._

_A ring upon his finger._

_A King knelt on one knee._

He drops the ring and staggers back clutching his head. 

Somewhere from above someone lets out a blood curdling scream.


	14. Chapter 14

It’s a scramble for the ladder as he wishes to investigate the screams and simply get away from the body, and from the memories. His heart pounds in his chest. They were memories. Scattered and fragmented but they were memories. His memories. If Gandalf were here he would call him a fool for entertaining such thoughts but he’s not here. Thorin is, and wearing a ring identical to his own. 

He needs to know more about Thorin. About his life and more importantly about his death. But the safety of the team is paramount. He climbs out of the hole and lends a hand to Kenny who in turn climbs out and offers a hand to Freddy. The cries for help echo in the vast empty space obscuring the location and he looks around trying to see where the sound was coming from. 

There’s a ruckus by the King’s Gallery and they turn as Ori, Nori and Bofur barrel in looking panic stricken. Their demeanours change upon seeing them but turn bleak once more as the cry for help and wailing sound again. 

“Dori!” Nori exclaims suddenly and he turns seeing Balin enter the Grand Gallery with his arm around Dori’s shoulders supporting his weight as Dori’s right hand covered his right eye. Nori runs towards them with Ori at his heels and as they step into the light he can see Dori’s hand is covered in blood. 

“Somebody get some help!” Nori yells, panicked and unhelpful, as he tries to pry Dori’s hand away. 

“What happened?” Bofur asks Balin, as Nori and Ori help Dori to sit on the floor. 

Balin shrugs in response. 

The whimpers from a grown man are unsettling and sends a chill down his spine. He watches, helpless, as Nori finally pulls Dori’s hand away revealing a deep gash above his eyebrow and a nasty scrape down his right cheek. 

“That’ll need stitching!” He calls out, determined to be useful. 

“We need to leave!” Nori counters, and he’s not wrong but he is stubborn and argumentative. 

“I’ll need the first aid box.” He continues, ignoring Nori. He had some plasters, wipes and gauze in his pack but he had left the first aid kit by the entrance along with their reserve of fuel, food, and climbing equipment. He looks to Balin for confirmation and he nods once in reply.

“We’ll fix Dori up and leave the mountain. With any luck Gandalf will be on his way back.” Balin speaks words he had no desire to hear. No one verbally agrees but it is unanimous, as they help Dori up and lead him through into the King’s Gallery. The boys follow, heavy-footed while he stares at the hole to the King’s tomb. 

There’s a deep ache in his heart as he turns away and follows the others. He feels crestfallen and cheated, but he cannot allow his pride to overshadow his humanity. The mountain had become dangerous due to his negligence and the small explosion to ignite the furnace. 

The boys cast suspicious glances at him as he dawdles behind them with his mind choosing to leave but his heart wanting to stay. The others, it would seem, could not leave quick enough and he finds himself increasing his lagging pace to keep up with them. 

It is difficult not to allow the hate into his heart or his suspicion to run rampant. He feels terrible for even thinking of being angry never mind actually being angry. Dori was injured and his priorities were wrong. He knows better, at least he should but the heart rarely listens to reason. 

He pauses on the balcony and looks upon the banners representing the seven kingdoms and briefly remembers the joy he felt when Balin speculated that they were indeed in Erebor. Mere days ago, but it felt like a lifetime and now their journey was at its end, like leaving Narnia through a wardrobe and finding nothing had changed. It had all been for nothing. It’s hard to think otherwise but he tries. It had been an adventure, short and full of errors but one he would not forget. He valued meeting Balin and especially the boys. He had chemistry with them and as brief as he had known them he knew their friendship would last a lifetime. He would miss their easy smiles and the paternal bond he felt for them. Most of all he would miss how he felt being in Erebor, not complete, he had never felt that way, but not as broken. As if the pieces of his shattered soul were scattered about and all he had to do was piece them together once more. 

Erebor offered answers. Erebor offered solace. 

“No!” He is awakened from his thoughts by an angry yell and realises he had fallen behind as the others were nowhere to be seen. He winds his torch and rushes down the tunnel surprised to find the team lingering by the entrance. 

Dori is sat on a rock with a piece of cloth torn from his shirt pressed against his forehead to stem the bleeding and he realises he doesn’t remember seeing the rock before. Curious, he shines his torch towards the entrance illuminating the back of the team and the caved in entrance. 

“It’s no good.” Bofur says, straightening back up. “It’s stuck tight and our equipment is on the other side.” 

“Well that’s that then.” Balin answers stumped. 

“It can’t be!” Nori argues, cabin fever officially set in. 

“We’ll just have to wait for Gandalf. If we try to move these rocks the whole lot could come down on top of us.” Bofur tries to placate his boyfriend. 

“I’m not going back in there.” Dori says, shaken but determined. He had become disenchanted with the mountain some time ago so his words do not come as a surprise. “I’ll wait for Gandalf.” 

“Not in that state you won’t, you’ll bleed to death.” 

“The first aid box is on the other side!” Nori says, kicking one of the fallen rocks and winces from the pain of it. 

“I have some bandages.” He offers. “I’ll clean it up as best I can.” If he could stem the blood flow then all would be well and if he had remembered the butterfly plasters then the scar would heal nicely.

“Gandalf might not come back for some days yet.” Balin muses. 

“Then you’ll need a look-out. I’d rather take my chances in here rather than in there, please allow me this Mr Fundin.” He takes a knee before Dori to eye the wound as Balin contemplates his decision. 

“Very well,” Balin drags out the words, tired and harassed. “I suppose we do need a look-out now that the entrance is blocked. We’ll get your things and Bofur will find you a safe place to sleep.” The blood on Dori’s brow is congealing and he steps away appeased. 

His pack remains in the forge and he takes his leave to retrieve it and in the dark of the tunnel leading back into Erebor he allows himself to smile.


	15. Chapter 15

“We’ll need to ration the fuel.” Balin says as they all sit around a camp fire. “The generator fuel has been siphoned for Dori’s lamp which leaves us with four lighting rigs. Now we don’t know when Gandalf will return, or how long it will be for us to be free, so I want these to be used when strictly necessary. I intend to carry on my research in the library so that rig will stay. Does anyone else require a rig?” Hesitantly he raises his hand. “Bilbo?”

“The tomb rig, if you don’t mind. One of the artefacts is damaged and I would like to document it for restoration purposes.” Lies come easily when shrouded in truth.

“Very well,” Balin agrees as the boys eye him sceptically. “Anyone else?” No one else raises their hand. “You have your torches, your time is now your own, gentlemen, until we are rescued.” That said, Balin takes his leave, walking towards the library with Ori at his heels. 

He pays no mind to the others as he rifles through his rucksack searching for his spare batteries. He tosses his bag aside dismayed when his search is fruitless. He was convinced his batteries were in the side pocket as they always were but the pocket was empty and the extra batteries were on the other side of the fallen rock. 

He climbs to his feet and ventures towards the tomb unaware he was being followed until Freddy and Kenny accost him in the dark. He slaps a hand over his mouth to stifle his cry of alarm as the brothers emerge from the shadows and gaze at him with unreadable expressions. Something about them is off-putting and he takes a step backwards. 

“Why do you want to go back in that tomb?” Kenny asks suspiciously. 

“This isn’t about the statue.” Freddy adds. 

“What happened when you touched that ring?” Kenny whispers loudly, stepping closer to him.

“Nothing, I stumbled and then Dori screamed.” He lies unnerved by their behaviour. 

“It’s a match to your ring.” Kenny continues. 

“It’s a simple gold ring, there are millions just like this one.” He doesn’t know why he is being standoffish and suddenly suspicious of them when he had felt so close to them before. The boys appear to notice the gaping chasm that had just opened between them judging by their sad expressive eyes and downturned lips. It pulls at his heartstrings but he imagines these are polished expressions from spoiled children and he won’t fall prey to it. He can’t. He doesn’t want the boys involved. He could not handle their mockery. He’s always been a loner, and this-whatever it was- was his to do alone. He doesn’t imagine what he is about to do is dangerous but the boys’ safety is paramount. Their safety has always been important to him, and far beyond that of simple teammates and his instincts tell him to cut ties with them. 

“Come on Kenny, Bilbo doesn’t want us around.” Freddy says dejectedly and pulls at his brother’s arm. It hurts him to his core to see them like that but in his heart of hearts he knows it must be done he just does not know why. 

Kenny lingers a moment longer staring at him with widened eyes and a mouth gaping in disbelief. A chill runs through him as he has seen that expression before but he cannot place where. He tries his best to keep his face neutral, indifferent to their sadness and Kenny eventually allows his brother to lead him away.

He releases the breath he was holding. Nods once to himself. It was for the best. 

It doesn’t stop him from feeling like shit for the way he has behaved. What was worse was that he could not explain his actions. There was so much he could not explain. He needed a confidante but the lads certainly weren’t it. He had questions and what he needed were answers and he knew where he would get them from. 

He carries on his journey into the Grand Gallery and pulls his shirt up over his nose as he climbs down into the tomb again. The stench of decay makes his eyes water and skin crawl but he ignores it and approaches the sarcophagus. 

He hadn’t lied to Kenny, there were millions of rings that looked the same as his and yet he had lied. As he had pulled his hand away in shock he had seen a rune similar to the ones on his own ring on the inside of Thorin’s. Words that mirrored his own or something else entirely he could not be sure. 

He hesitated before, he does not hesitate now as he reaches inside the tomb and touches the ring. 

_Sapphire eyes._

_Soft lips against his own._

_A beard scratching against his clean-shaven jaw_. 

He releases the ring and takes a deep breath before touching the ring again.

_Watering sapphire eyes widen by betrayal._

_Lips parted to emit a feral scream._

_Anger._

_Fear._

_Weightlessness._

_Nothingness._

He releases the ring and wipes at a stray tear that had fallen from his eye. “What did you do?” He asks aghast, staring at the remains of the king. Balin’s words come back to haunt him. He had said he had read that Thorin had cast his lover away and had assumed it had meant his consort. He fears it is true. He had seen the anger in his eyes, hell fire and vengeance. He had felt the fear and the nothingness that came after. In a fit of rage Thorin had murdered his lover. 

He steps away from the tomb. One step turns to two and two becomes three and before he knows it he is climbing up the ladder with a heavy heart. He had started to believe that the king was innocent. He had seen the love in his eyes but he had seen the hate too. 

He climbs out of the hole, winds his torch and turns off the lighting rig knowing he won’t be back in for some time, if ever. He feels shaken and disturbed by finding out something he believed wholeheartedly in was a lie. He needs closure and a heavy dose of reality and there is only one teammate able to give him the answers that he needs. 

He strides purposefully into The Gallery of the King’s and tries to hide his remorse as the boys turn away from him. He had hurt them, he knows, lately that’s all he’s done, hurt people who only tried to look out for him. Maybe it is a familial trait given the hurt and despair among the hatred he had seen in the king’s eyes. 

He can’t help but wonder what he could have done. No, not he, _him,_ who he was before. How could a love so pure turn so poisonous? There’s a fine line between love and hate, both as passionate and all-consuming as the other. Somehow, they had crossed that threshold and he had paid for it with his life. 

He touches the ring around his neck and feels for the slight indent. Had he been wearing it when he had been thrown, or had the king thrown it after his body? No one had the answer to that, not even Balin. The ring had left the mountain, that they did know and that was all they knew. 

He finds Balin in the library peering at the cover of a book through moon-shaped spectacles. Ori is in the corner by the table sat upon the ancient stool and scribbling in his leather-bound book. 

“Balin,” he says quietly so he does not startle the older man. 

“Ah Bilbo, something I can help you with?” Balin asks helpfully and he nods and signals him towards the back of the library to where the lighting rig is. 

“Could you tell me all you know of Thorin Oakenshield?” 

“I could and it wouldn’t take very long. Is there something in particular?” 

“The murders.” After he had murdered his consort, he had murdered his nephews. “Is there an explanation why?” The mirth in Balin’s eyes perishes. 

“I imagine there was an explanation but in the texts I found the pages were gone, torn out and most likely burned with the Erebor banners.” Balin had said similarly in the lodge but he had hoped there would be more that he was not too keen to share. As it is, he sounds angry, robbed of the chance to learn about the fall of the kingdoms. 

“Did Thorin…” he pauses, as it’s preposterous but when he thinks of the king he is without a crown. “Did Thorin abdicate?” If he had it would certainly explain his rage having given up so much for a love that had ended. 

“Fíli was his chosen heir and he would have been far too young for the crown. His sister or sisters could not inherit so I don’t imagine he did.”

“Did he not have a brother?” 

“Very little is said about his siblings, I know of one sister only because of his sister-sons who happened to be brothers. It is unfortunate but only the first male is acknowledged in most Durin tribes.” 

“Do you believe in past lives?” He asks suddenly, like ripping off a plaster and braces himself for the mocking chuckle that does not come. 

“No, too many charlatans have disabused me of that.” He nods in understanding now knowing that Balin would not be a suitable confidante. He had answered his question honestly and without ridicule and he was thankful for that. He turns to walk away. “I do believe that the past shapes the future.” Balin speaks suddenly and he ceases his retreat. “I am a firm believer of history repeating itself, look at the Great War. The war to end all wars, they had said. It was a catalyst for conflict on a much wider scale. Without the first there would not be a second and yet there was a first to prevent a second. We did not learn from it so therefore we are doomed to repeat it.”

“So, you’re saying history offers us redemption?”

“I think the past seeks redemption. The past is ingrained in everything we do today and that is where I think people misunderstand past lives. The past is alive today as it was then, things change but fundamentally stay the same and human nature has changed very little.” It’s odd to speak of the past as if it were a living entity tearing its hair out over the same mistakes and yet he could strangely picture it. “It’s hard to seek redemption from the grave.” Balin adds and then takes his leave before he could question him further. 

He touches the ring around his neck and still finds that it brings him comfort. Is that why he was here? To offer comfort to the dead? He remembers the look in Thorin’s eyes, the fires of hell burning brightly but what if they extinguished and he came back to himself and saw what he had done? He had found Thorin’s body for a reason, what if it was all just an apology from a fallen King seeking redemption?


	16. Chapter 16

Last night his sleep was undisturbed and dreamless and he was grateful for that. He didn’t want to be overwhelmed with visions of the past, he didn’t care to see what was knowing what it became. He was… hurt by Thorin’s betrayal. He still does not know why he did it and he’s not too keen on finding out what ignited his explosive temper.

Ignorance is bliss, but not why he was here. He was here to uncover the past and make sense of the senseless. What he had was a gift. Somehow, he was able to see into the past, as brief and fragmented as those glimpses were. He had an edge on the competition and the makings of a best seller. 

So, maybe there was truth in Balin’s words. Maybe there truly were no such things as past lives. Maybe the life he was seeing and the emotions he felt weren’t his but that of an ancestor. The King was from the mountains but his lover was not. He could have had a cousin in a different village, perhaps a third cousin, distant but family. It is hard to seek redemption from the grave especially if the one you seek forgiveness from is in their grave. His family tree was a sapling due to his mother’s sealed adoption records and his father’s lost ones. There was no way to confirm his suspicion but it was possible. 

Then again, he had heard of objects being cursed from dybbuk boxes to the famous mummy case of the high priestess of Amen-Ra. Though largely debunked now it had captured his imagination as a child. Even past teammates have confided in him about horrible visions and a string of tragedies that followed after they had taken something that they shouldn’t have. They weren’t thieves, the items they had taken were keepsakes, a small pebble and a piece of broken jade but it had cost them. They had no reason to lie but Gandalf would often shake his head when he recounted their stories and warn him of his active imagination. He dreads to think about what Gandalf would make of his past life theory.

He shakes his head to rid himself of that particular headache and touches the ring around his neck. It had always brought him comfort from the moment it was given to him. It had felt like a piece of him had returned. At the time he had just assumed it was an heirloom as his father had said and the contentment was knowing he had a family somewhere. That feeling had never left him even when the truth of the ring came out. He saw the action for what it was and assumed the feeling was now the great love he felt for his father.

He rubs over the dent in the ring. He doesn’t know what to think. Was the ring cursed? When it had come into his possession his obsession with Erebor began. Had Thorin been calling for him for so long, guiding him to this moment? And if so, why him? Did the ring come to him by chance? Surely Thorin would desire forgiveness from the one he had wronged, not for one single stranger and wait another forty years.

It wasn’t happenstance. The ring came to him for a reason but why would the King wait so long for a member of his beloved’s family. He’d almost thought himself out of it but he is beginning to think of past lives again. How long must one wait to be reincarnated? Is the manner of their death a factor? Balin had said Thorin’s lover’s body was so torn up by the rocks that it was never fully recovered. Was that why he also felt so shattered, unfilled and lost? He often played a secondary role in the story of his life because he didn’t know who he was. He went from bed to bed, stealing moments with strangers hoping to find himself but he was still as broken as before. He had hoped the intimacy would have awoken him but each frantic tumble was followed by a shy goodbye.

He was too long in the tooth and accomplished to be so unfulfilled. He had always believed that there had to be more to it. Now he potentially had the answers he longed for if he could find it in himself to forgive the Mad King. 

“He’s dead!” He looks up at the shadowy figure waving frantically on the balcony. “He’s dead! He’s dead!” The wailing summons the team as they appear from the shadows as though birthed from the dark. 

“Ori?” Balin shouts worriedly, stumbling over the fallen statue in front of the library in his haste. 

“Balin please!” Ori pleads. 

“Ori!” Nori then yells joining the team having been summoned from the dark. 

“Nori!” Ori chokes and Nori dashes across the golden floor and up the steps to console his brother. It has all happened so fast he can barely comprehend what is happening. He climbs to his feet and looks around. The boys are safe standing at the edge of the light that spills from the library. The distance from himself and them was not lost on him. Bofur and Balin were making their way up the stairs and he shrugs his shoulders. Ori must have had a nightmare because everyone was accounted for. 

No.

Dori wasn’t. 

He’s already half way across the hall when the reality of the situation hits him. He gathers the others are struck similarly as they come to life, rushing towards the same destination. He runs up the stairs taking two at a time and finds Ori sobbing on his brother’s shoulder. 

“I went to bring him some food but he wouldn’t wake up. Why won’t he wake up?” Ori asks hysterically while Nori rocks him in his arms. He winds his torch as the boys’ lights are fading and sees Balin signal with his hand to follow him. 

He leaves the brothers to their grief and follows after Balin with the boys not far behind him. He’s not sure what he had expected to see but the sight of Dori laid on his back in his sleeping bag certainly wasn’t it. His skin is ashen and his blue lips are parted as if to scream while his eyes are wide open in fear. 

He looks terrified. 

“What happened Balin?” Kenny asks as the older man kneels besides Dori’s cold stiff body. 

“No obvious signs of foul play. It looks as if he was scared to death.” 

“A heart attack? He wasn’t that old.” Freddy adds. 

“He was old enough and overweight and he had gotten himself into a right state. He might have been hurt more than we realised, I’m not a Doctor and I don’t like to guess.” Balin had a point, he had healed the wound as best he could but he could have had a fractured skull or a bleed on the brain. It could be something as simple as a heart attack but his mind won’t rest and his imagination runs rampant. 

Dori had always suspected that they were not alone in the mountain and when he was brave enough to stand by his convictions he had been hit by falling debris. The accident had only made him more determined to leave and their exit had been blocked and now this. It could all be a coincidence and a string of bad luck but he believed everything happened for a reason. 

He wished he had taken Dori’s fears seriously, but even he had been as dismissive as Balin towards Dori’s plight. His argument had sounded like the ravings of a mad man, inarticulate and desperate. He should have responded to that desperation but he didn’t. Now whatever Dori knew was lost to them as he had taken it to his grave.


	17. Chapter 17

“Petrol’s all gone,” Balin tells them as he rights the fallen lantern. 

“The petrol’s all gone?” Nori asks incredulously as he joins them in the tunnel. “My brother is dead and you’re concerned about the fucking petrol?” 

“Calm down Nori,” Bofur intervenes, placing a calming hand onto his boyfriend’s heaving chest. “He didn’t mean nothing by it.”

“I am sorry Nori,” Balin apologises, as he climbs to his feet wiping his dirty hands onto his trousers. Nori says nothing in response and simply stares down at his brother. 

“What do we do now?” Ori asks, coming to join them in an oversized woollen jumper that was most likely Dori’s. He looks small wearing it, and a hole is beginning to form on the left arm where he nervously plays with it as he holds himself in a comforting embrace. 

“We leave, that’s what!” Nori answers louder than necessary. The others seem taken aback by his aggressiveness but for himself this was the only side of Nori he had seen. Resolute with his answer, Nori charges towards the fallen rocks and begins to dislodge them dangerously from the bottom. He should reprimand him but this isn’t his circus, these aren’t his monkeys, which, given his standing on the team, is a terrible outlook. Yet that was supposing they were a team, and they never were. 

“Stop it Nori, you’ll bring the whole bloody lot down on us.” Bofur tries to calm the situation verbally but Nori continues mindlessly, forcing Bofur to pull him away. In his anger, Nori turns and shoves Bofur away before crowding him against the wall and pressing his forearm across his throat. 

“That isn’t your brother laying there!” Nori’s actions cause a commotion as everyone begins to shout vying for their voices to be heard and yet it is one whimper and a quiet plea in the guise of his name that quells Nori’s rage. He releases Bofur without an apology and gathers his brother into his arms once more. 

“What do we do now?” Kenny asks once tempers have simmered. Bofur remains by the wall rubbing at his reddened neck, eyes to the ground looking shaken. He wants to comfort him but it would only bring more trouble his way. At least in the partial dark Nori is unable to see his concern and misinterpret it. 

“There is nothing we can do. Gandalf will be back soon and he’ll see the blockage and he’ll get the appropriate help.”

“I’ve got my mobile, do you think he’d answer?” Kenny’s question is met with silence and slack-jawed expressions. “What?” He asks sheepishly. 

“You’ve had a phone all this time?”

“Well yeah, Freddy does too.” If looks could kill, Dori would have company in the afterlife.

“Best go and get them then lads.” Balin suggests politely given his icy stare. “I don’t want to be here longer than necessary, let’s see about those phones, shall we?” The boys have already taken their leave leaving himself, Balin, Bofur, Nori and Ori within the tunnel. 

“What about Dori?” Bofur asks since Nori and Ori are consumed by grief. He has an idea but does not dare to voice it given Nori’s temper as well as his disdain for him. 

“We’ll cover him up and leave him here so they can remove his body when they rescue us.” Balin’s idea is similar to his own and he nods along, agreeable to anything so long as he no longer had to see Dori’s haunting face. 

Nori and Ori remain to say goodbye and to cover his body as they leave the tunnel. The boys are already on the golden floor rifling through their backpacks and Bofur chooses to remain on the balcony and await his lover, leaving himself and Balin to walk down the stairs. The atmosphere is tense and the general mood is sad but he can’t help but notice the supressed smile on Balin’s lips. 

It’s rather cold and misplaced and he doesn’t know whether he should address it. Better him than Nori if he should see it. 

“You seem cheerful.” He simply states devoid of accusation. 

“Not about Dori, that’s a terrible situation but his death did get me thinking about my own mortality. I think you know I shouldn’t be here, I’m usually summoned after the discovery so being here was a stroke of luck. I mean, Erebor, quite the find for a last hurrah. I’m not getting any younger and my knee is seizing up, this is it for me.” Balin’s defence leaves him more puzzled, as he redirected the narrative. He didn’t owe him an explanation but he would have preferred silence over the cock and bull story. 

“I guess I’ve become selfish in my old age, my time is short and I want things for myself. Is it wrong of me to rejoice that the team on their way to take our places will be delayed for at least three months?” He levels Balin with a questioning look. “First they will have to dig us out and then there will be an investigation due to Dori’s death. Given the current landscape the investigation would be further delayed. It’s petty, I know but it makes me feel better.” In the dark, he nods but deep down he knows he is willing to do anything to join the second team. 

“Sorry Mr Fundin, our batteries are dead and the chargers are on the other side of the wall.” 

“Probably wouldn’t have had a signal anyway.” He says to compensate the lads’ downturned expressions. He still felt the need to come to their defence and it was a mission he would gladly take as they were the only two to have the foresight to bring their phones. 

“So what happens now?” 

“It’s just a waiting game.” Balin answers and he notices his lips curl slightly in the corners again. He wants to be here. He takes a step back shrouding himself in shadows to hide his expression. It might be nothing and he’s suspected Balin before and nothing came of it, so he tries to reserve his judgement. 

“Someone should wait in the tunnel so we know when Gandalf arrives.” Freddy offers.

“Yeah,” Kenny agrees. “We’ll take first watch.” It sounds helpful but he can’t help but think the boys are taking first watch while Dori’s body remains fresh. The smell of decaying flesh is an obnoxious odour, sickening and overwhelming and once the scent is caught in your nostrils it never truly leaves. 

“Good plan, stay together. We’ll sort out a rota at dinner, tell the others.” The boys nod and rush off and he finds himself suddenly uncomfortable alone in Balin’s presence. “We should stay together,” he nods slowly while trying to subdue the tremor in his right arm. “Will you accompany me to the library?” He nods once again not trusting his voice and follows behind Balin while casting panicked looks towards the balcony where Bofur still stands. 

“I’ll be honest with you,” Balin says turning towards him as they enter the library. “I am glad of the cave-in.” A convenient cave-in then, it had struck him as suspicious. “Is Bilbo a family name?” He suddenly asks changing the subject again. 

“I wouldn’t know but my father was named Bungo.” He answers with a shrug as if it were nothing, while knowing there was more to the question. Given Balin’s intense unwavering gaze he doesn’t seem to believe him and he is unwilling to defend himself. 

“Who are you really Mr Baggins?” The question throws him. “I shouldn’t be here and I don’t think you should be either and yet here we are.” 

“Here we are.” He echoes only because he is out of his depth and he had felt for some time that he was a spare part in this team.

Balin continues to stare at him, measuring him, trying to find a friend or a conspirator? Whatever he is looking for he finds with a small smile and a nod of his head. “I’ve something to show you.” Balin’s actions leave him dizzy and confused and so he can only mindlessly follow him to the end shelf where he lifts up a book. “How did you know?” He questions passing him the book and tapping on a passage with his index finger twice. 

He looks down at the text indicted and begins to read;

_I, Thorin Oakenshield, second of my name, first son of Thrain son of Thror, King of Erebor do hereby renounce my kingship and abdicate the throne._


	18. Chapter 18

He passes the book back as if burned. 

“I did not know.”

“So you can read what it says.” Balin’s observation leaves him baffled and he looks over the text now held within the historian’s hands. Moments ago, the text was written in English but now he looks upon words written in Khuzdul. “I have to wonder why Gandalf claimed you could not read Khuzdul when you clearly can.” He can’t, the words he looks upon now make no sense. Balin’s stare is unwavering and somewhat smug. He knows much more than he is letting on and it is a blessing to have someone to talk to about the strange occurrences. “Who are you working for?” Balin suddenly asks and his heart plummets. 

“What do you mean?”

“I’m too long in the tooth to have been born yesterday. The locals were adamant to prevent our excavation but soon silenced once your name was mentioned. So I’ll ask again, who are you working for? New Zealand Heritage? National Trust? New Zealand Archaeological Association?” He shakes his head slowly dismayed to learn that Balin thinks he’s a plant rather than validate his past life theory. “You will not tell me, very well, we all have our little secrets now don’t we? Can I at least suggest a working relationship? I gather you wish to learn more about the king, as I do and perhaps we could share information?” He then holds his hand out to seal their shady deal. 

He blames his weak character for shaking Balin’s hand when he is innocent of the accusations towards him. Balin could have gone to the others and spoke of his suspicions, but he chose to accuse him to his face. He could appreciate that. In that he chose to ally himself to his nefarious quest was questionable; however, the others weren’t too keen on finding anything more and having Balin on his side had served his purpose very well so far. It was worth the knock to his reputation. Balin had forgotten more than he would ever know of the Long Beards. 

“Thorin was not the last King of Erebor, so then, who was?” He asks. Balin’s opinion of him is made and he could not change it but he could use it to his advantage. 

“Fili was too young to take the crown. His mother would have to be Queen Regent which I imagine would not go well in this patriarchal system given they had an able king.” Balin pauses. “What makes you think there was another king?” 

“Thorin relinquished his rights to the throne which usually means his conduct was unprofessional…” 

“Murdering ones nephews could be deemed unprofessional.” Balin interrupts. 

“But why would he have done it? Why renounce his kingship and kill his nephews? Surely you’d do one or the other not both.” 

“Yes, I do see your point, but what if the signature is a forgery?” His jaw drops at the suggestion, and without having Thorin’s signature there was no way to authenticate it. 

“Are you suggesting that there was a coup?” Balin shrugs in response. 

“Something Bofur said has stayed with me. He had said that they had tunnelled and built Thorin’s tomb, rather elaborate for a king as loathed as he was. If they had meant to bury him in an unmarked grave why not dig a hole, throw him in and fill it in? What if they were tunnelling with the express purpose of burying him there and he caught wind of it?” In that the king was buried alive they had been tunnelling while he lived building his damned tomb beneath his very feet. The knowledge of that could drive anyone to madness. “It could drive someone to murder.” 

“He killed his nephews and his lover, not his sister.” He speaks his thoughts aloud, as his sister would have benefited the most from his death. 

“Perhaps his sister did not know. Perhaps his lover desired a younger monarch.” A shiver runs down his spine as he remembers the look of betrayal in Thorin’s eyes. All this time he hadn’t considered his own actions that had led to his demise. He had considered himself innocent but what if he had taken the sides of the nephews and betrayed the king? 

“Of course, this is all speculation assuming that isn’t his signature. If it is, we need to know why he abdicated and who would succeed him.” He nods in agreement. “The answer is written somewhere on these pages, time is our only enemy.” Time is not their only enemy as his deceit will hamper their search. He realises now why Balin had come clean to him, Ori was out of commission and he needed help. He feels terrible for the charade now but not enough to come clean. Balin thinks he is some kind of double agent and he’d rather him think that than to confess that he is the reincarnation of Thorin Oakenshield’s lover. 

If that even is what he is.

He pretends to read the spines of a line of books to his left with little joy. He could decipher ancient Greek and hoped because of its similar appearance he could understand Khuzdul but he could not. There’s a scroll on the end of the shelf tied with a red ribbon and he reaches for it before thinking better of it. The books appeared better preserved but even so he and Balin should not have handled the text so roughly. It is a testament to Balin’s desperation that he would endanger texts to prove a point and uncover a double agent. 

He considers coming clean. So what if they thought him mad? They were all trapped within the mountain so no men in white coats could come and take him away. The team for want of a better word were already fractured and fragmented and their opinion meant less and less as the days passed. 

He continues on to the next bookshelf to keep up pretences. He can’t come clean, not when Balin’s opinion still means something to him, even if that opinion was now incredibly low. He walks to the very end of the library just beyond the lighting rig and suddenly feels lightheaded. He braces his hand against the wall to keep his balance and feels the rock move beneath his palm. 

He turns to find Balin’s location and quickly turns back and removes his hand. The wall is in shadow so he reaches again for the broken rock and finds a small indent- enough for a fingertip to prise open the rock. He looks over his shoulder once more and finds Balin sat on an overturned barrel with his head buried in a book and then prises the rock open with his fingernail. 

To his surprise the rock has been made into a secret draw that pulls out half an inch. It’s cleverly concealed and well-made and he considers calling Balin over when a ribbon of light blue catches his eye. He edges closer to the draw and peers inside by the little light afforded him and sees a scroll no longer than an inch tied with a light blue ribbon. 

His head swims and he clutches the wall once more. 

_”It’s too dangerous.”_ He hears the past echo of his own voice. _”If something were to happen to either of you, I won’t forgive myself.”_

 _“You worry too much.”_ A voice answers back, distant, distorted as though his ears were blocked or he was under water. 

_“No one suspects.”_ Another voice adds. 

_“We must be careful, if he were to find out I can’t imagine what he’d do to us.”_

His head aches terribly and he closes his eyes and opens them finding himself in the library lit by burning torches. He looks down and held within his hand is a piece of parchment tied with a burgundy string. _“Take this,”_ he says to the two figures stood behind the bookshelf and shrouded in darkness and deposits the scroll into an outstretched hand. _“Let this be the last time I see you. Use the draw and be careful.”_ They nod as one and leave as one disappearing into the shadows. 

He staggers forward coming back to the present and snatches the scroll, stuffing it into his pocket and shuts the draw. He turns to see if his erratic behaviour has disturbed Balin but he remains hunched over lost in the book balanced on his knees. 

He takes his leave suddenly feeling short of breath and pats his pocket feeling for the scroll. He does not know where to go and the absence of light hinders his path so he simply leans against a wall and sinks down as his feet can no longer bear his own weight. 

His heart feels heavy and the sick feeling in his gut makes him believe that he-the man he had been- the man he could still be, had conspired to kill the king.


	19. Chapter 19

_They had missed the cue for the partner change and a bubble of laughter sounds from behind him that is quickly silenced by a glare from ice blue eyes. They continue to circle one another, palm to palm, the warmth of the man’s hand surely responsible for the flush of his burning cheeks. He finds it difficult to prevent his eyes from wandering down the physique of his companion, or simply dropping his gaze completely. Yet he is drawn to the man, like a moth to a flame, as his burning touch ignited a fire in his bonfire heart._

_His mouth is dry and he is short of breath, a malady of the heart caused by the vision of loveliness before him. If he were to speak his thoughts he would surely be struck for them. His partner was beauty personified. Tall, dark and handsome. His thin lips are drawn up in a devilish smirk beneath a long black beard. A warrior. His beard was so long he could tuck it within his belt if he so wished. Undefeated then._

_They miss the final partner change but the dance carries on around them as they remain lost in each other. He’s accosted by thoughts of the man’s lips against his own wondering if his kisses were as hot as his smouldering touch and if they were what would his body feel like? He’d shake the thoughts from his mind but he can’t seem to move, trapped within this web of desire that is both new and exhilarating._

_The song ends and the spell is broken. They separate their hands to applaud the musicians and the warmth of his touch haunts him. His courage fails him and the bravado he had moments ago vanishes into the ether along with himself as he loses himself in the mass of bodies readying themselves for the next song. He stands on his tiptoes to look out from the sea of bodies like a drowning man gasping for air and finds cerulean eyes tracking his movements._

_His cowardice urges him to flee and so he does, casting longing looks over his shoulder as he approaches Gloin once more._

_“Good chat with the king?” Gloin asks with mirth in his eyes._

_“I didn’t see the king.” He admits._

_“No?” Gloin asks, baffled by his answer and takes a drink from his tankard. “You were dancing with him.” He says with a shrug and wipes the froth from the ale from his lips with the back of his hand. “Yer Majesty,” Gloin suddenly says and bows his head as he feels a presence behind him._

_His stomach drops as his heart simultaneously leaps into his throat and he turns to find his dancing partner stood before him. He bows his head, once, twice, the third time was overkill but he is tripping over actions as one might trip over words. He keeps his eyes to the ground as he is out of his depth that even the king’s deep rich laughter will not make him lift it._

_“Bilbo here would like a word with you.” Gloin suddenly says, slapping him on the back._

_“Would he now?”_

_Words feel foreign on his tongue and he can only nod dumbly in response._

_“Very well.” Thorin agrees and the absurdity of it makes him lift his head and fall under the spell of those blue eyes once more. The rumours had said that he was fearsome but they had not said that he was handsome. His beauty must be his armour, beguiling his enemies, fogging their brains with indecent thoughts._

_“You will listen to me?” He asks surprised._

_“Of course,” Thorin replies with a shrug as if his response is absurd. He reminds himself that Thorin does not know who he is or why he has come and his willingness to listen could be because of the celebration. It matters little, he has his audience with the king, his matter would be resolved but the matters of his heart have only just begun._

Bilbo awakes with a start and sits up blinking rapidly as his eyes adjust to the firelight. He drops his head into his heads and takes deep breaths as his heart hammered in his chest. “Why did you show me this?” He mutters into his palms and knocks away stray tears in the corners of his eyes. 

Once he is suitably calmed he drops his hands and looks around at his companions laid around the campfire sleeping peacefully. He’d look at his watch but time was pointless in the mountain and the idea of sleep doesn’t appeal to him. Instead, he climbs out of his sleeping bag and collects his torch and steps away from the others before turning the torch on. 

He shouldn’t be surprised when he finds he has mindlessly wandered into the Grand Gallery and stands near the hole to the king’s burial chamber. He has half a mind to climb down but to do so safely he would have to turn on the light and risk awakening the others by the noise. 

Instead he stands in the dark, his torch off by his side and simply waits. Something brought him here, something wants him here. “What do you want?” He whispers. Surely if the king were angry at him he would show him what he had done, rather than what they had had. And what they had…he had never felt that way before. Carnal desire, yes but there was more, a sense of fulfilment and belonging, a calm before a storm and the storm did come and tore it all away. 

Had he really conspired to kill the king? He shoves his hand into his pocket and feels for the scroll secreted away there. He should have come clean and had Balin translate it but now the weight of his guilt feels like a stone in his pocket. 

He hears a noise and his posture stiffens as he listens for more. 

A sniffle. 

His heart beats rapidly in his chest. 

“Hello?” He calls out timidly and winds his torch. He hears it again and his thoughts turn to the fallen king alone in his coffin, his spirit weeping over his betrayal. 

There’s a noise behind him and he turns suddenly, his torchlight cuts through the darkness as he goes and for a moment something is illuminated that should not be there. He recovers his footing and moves the light again to reveal a figure curled into himself wearing an oversized jumper while sobbing against his knees.

“Ori?” He asks and a head with a brown bowl-cut lifts and watering brown eyes glisten in his torchlight. He quickly makes his way over to the youngest member of the team and sits next to him at a reasonable distance. “I’m sorry about Dori,” he says as silence stretches between them. As words go, it’s not much but he did not know Dori and cannot mourn for him but he does feel sorry for his passing. 

“He was a good man, a good brother.” Ori replies wiping his runny nose with his sleeve. “Da left before I was born, so I always saw Dori more as a father figure than my brother.” He nods understandingly in the dark knowing that Ori needed to talk and digest what had happened. 

“He loved you.” He says to fill the silence. His words not only placating but the truth. 

“I loved him.” Ori replies and succumbs to tears once more. 

For a moment he is unsure what to do. He had never really conversed with Ori beyond pleasantries due to Dori’s hovering and Nori’s ire. He might never get this opportunity again but what were words worth without meaning? 

“I lost my parents when I was about your age.” Ori lifts his head intrigued. “Carbon Monoxide poisoning, dodgy boiler.” He adds. “I was away in Romania, it was my first real dig, found nothing of course but I couldn’t wait to tell them all about it.” He pauses to compose himself as the pain of finding his parents bodies was still as potent today as the day it happened. “I knew something was wrong when I opened the door…the smell…” he trails off with a shake of his head before he gagged at the memory of it. “We lived in a cottage in the countryside, the nearest neighbour was a field away and my parents were retired so no one knew.” 

“That must have been horrible.” 

“It was.” He concedes. “My mother was laid on the settee, she had been reading The Iliad. I remember it was open at page one hundred and fifty-two laying across her stomach. My father was in his favourite decrepit armchair in front of the black and white TV and the screen was static. Could have been like any other day. It was like a snapshot had been taken and immortalised.”

“How did you…how did you recover from it?”

“Work. I thought about my last words to my parents. I told them that I was going on an adventure and I swore to them that I would find something and make them proud of me.” 

“I told Dori after this I’d get into teaching. His arthritis was playing up and he couldn’t traipse after me forever so I was going to settle in one place, buy us a house, look after him as he had looked after me.” Ori pauses. “I think I would still like to teach and I’ll buy that house in memory of my brother.”

“I think he would have liked that.” 

“I think so too. Thank you, Bilbo, for talking to me and giving me hope. You didn’t have to share your story with me, we haven’t really talked much because of Nori and everyone was quick to give their condolences but no one really took the time to talk.” He nods in understanding, you could only hear ‘I’m sorry’ so many times before you wanted to snap. “Nori’s masking his pain with anger. He’s not normally like that, the way he behaves towards you. I think he’s just nervous and sees you as a threat to his relationship with Bofur.”

“I’m not.”

“I know that, everyone knows that but him. He’s just paranoid because he wants to propose so he’s seeing things that aren’t there. Anticipating the bad without contemplating the good.” Ori then wipes at his now dry eyes. “If there’s anything I could do for you…”

“There is actually.” He says far too eagerly and produces the scroll from his pocket. “Could you translate this?” Ori nods and takes the scroll from him and releases the blue ribbon and unrolls it. He illuminates the scroll with his torch and watches Ori’s lips move as he reads the words before they draw up in the corners into a sad smile. “What does it say?”

“It’s a love letter. _What is the moon without the stars? Splendid but faded, illuminating lovers in its cold jaded light while reminiscing of the stars laid on a bed of black silk. I would rather my heart be torn from my chest than live a single day without you by my side. For it is you that I love, and I shall prove my devotion to you. T._ ” Ori than passes the scroll back to him along with the ribbon. “What do you suppose that means?” 

“It means…” he pauses. It could mean a great many things. “That someone did not receive their mail.”


	20. Chapter 20

He reads the scroll and then again, his lips framing the words as if he were reading and not reciting them. The note could mean many things, had Thorin murdered his family as proof of his devotion? Or had he abdicated to be with him? And if he had, why then throw him to his death? One thing was clear, Thorin Oakenshield was promised to someone else. Where his loyalties lied was now the question. 

He paces the length of the library while staring longingly at the entrance. He had tried to coax Ori into helping him but he would not budge saying he had seen something while he wallowed in the dark and he chose to investigate that instead. 

Knowing his mind would be plagued by thoughts of the scroll and the possibilities of its meaning he had long given up on the idea of sleep and had returned to the library to await Balin. As choices go, it had been a bad one and he now regretted not helping Ori as his curiosity had swallowed his patience. 

“Bilbo? I’m glad that’s you, I thought I had left the light on.”

“Balin was Thorin engaged to someone?” He asks without delay. 

“Engaged I could not say. The text only read that he had cast his lover away.”

“Not to him to someone else.” Silence stretches between them as Balin stares at him with a brow arched in query. 

“What have you found?” Without hesitation he passes the scroll still within his hand and retrieves the blue ribbon it had been tied with from his pocket. Balin takes it cautiously, his eyes never leaving his face as he unrolled the scroll and finally released him from his judgemental gaze. “What do you think this is?” Balin asks after he has read the note and the question throws him. 

“It’s a love letter.” He answers with a shrug, his confidence plummeting by the second. 

“You think Thorin Oakenshield wrote this?” Balin asks with a laugh and he suddenly realised why he had kept the note a secret- to escape ridicule. 

“Well…it is signed.” He finishes, lamely. 

“With a T, hardly proof.” Balin continues, chuckling all the while. “Thorin Oakenshield single-handedly ended the Blood Wars and you think he wrote these flowery words?” Balin doubles over in laughter. 

“So he ended the Blood Wars, does that make him an unfeeling barbarian?” He snaps and the laughter stops. “He had a sister, perhaps she helped him write it, or his nephews.” He’s clutching at straws to make his point and Balin gives him that curious look again, one that is both questioning and judgemental. 

“You seem certain that Thorin Oakenshield wrote this note. Too certain. What aren’t you telling me?” Balin laughed at him for the note, he will not be ridiculed for his visions. No, if Balin thinks he is some double agent then he would play into it. 

“I was sent here…” he begins and looks around making sure no one was around to overhear. “To find the name of Thorin’s betrothed.”

“This seems very important to you.”

“It is. It could be the answer to the question we all want to know.”

“Why did Thorin Oakenshield do what he did?” Balin finishes and he nods. “You’ve given me direction and I’ll take it but withhold anymore information from me laddie and this deal is off.” He nods and holds his hands up in surrender. 

“You have my word, you’ll know it as soon as I do.” Just how he came by the information will remain a secret. 

“Very well,” Balin agrees and hands the scroll back. “You start at that end and I’ll start at this end.” With that he turns and walks away and his smile fades as Balin’s back is turned. He had forgotten Balin assumed his could read Khuzdul.

Reluctantly he walks over to where Balin instructed and despairs as he reads the foreign titles. 

 

~

Looking at his watch only makes time pass slower. He returns the book he was pretending to read and moves on to the next shelf. A sigh of relief escapes his lips as he picks up the book Balin had handed him days before. He had read a passage then, beginning this whole charade and he turns to that page now disappointed that he can no longer read it. 

He pulls the note from his pocket and compares the signatures. The lines are thicker in the book, written with certainty unlike the gentle strokes of the quill written in uncertainty. Two states of mind, but only one hand. Thorin’s hand. 

He turns the page surprised to see one more entry. Considering the note before it was Thorin’s abdication then the only probable entry would be the announcement of his successor. He looks over the words noticing that one of them on the third line was written in another hand and he compares the letters to the note. 

F.R.E.R.I.N. 

Putting the note back into his pocket, he prays he is not mistaken as he goes over to Balin, now seated at the table and places the book in front of him. 

“Frerin.” He says simply as if it means something and he certainly hopes it does. 

Balin looks up at him in surprise and then reads the passage. “This cannot be,” he says in disbelief, sitting back on the stool while removing his glasses and rubbing his forehead in confusion. “Frerin was Thorin’s younger brother.” Balin tells him as he has realised he had not recognised his name. 

“Well it would make sense for Thorin to abdicate for his brother.” He says slowly, wondering what has Balin so perplexed. 

“Prince Frerin died in the Blood Wars.”


	21. Chapter 21

“So, it’s a forgery then.” He states sadly. 

“No,” Balin contradicts. “I believe this is authentic, see the sigil here?” He says pointing to a circle of wax with an anvil and crossed hammers with seven stars above depicted in the centre. “Notice the size and shape? A ring, one of seven. A ring for each King of the seven kingdoms.” He gently turns the pages. “Each entry is marked by one, here, two rings, Gundabad, possibly the peace treaty.” He guesses while turning the page and then, once his point is finally made he closes the book. “If Frerin became king why was his death noted in the casualties of the Blood War?” 

“Perhaps they were mistaken?”

“They made a point of describing his death, decapitation.” A shiver runs down his spine. 

“Maybe the ring was stolen?” He tries again. 

“The thought had crossed my mind, given Thorin is in his grave without the ring. But if they went through so much trouble to falsify records, why then seat a dead man upon the throne?” He pauses without an answer. “It appears that the other records were falsified.” He doesn’t speak, only arches a brow in query. “The Gundabad Chronicles, my life’s work.” Balin adds quietly and lowers his head. 

The Gundabad Chronicles was Balin’s greatest work and had cemented his place as the foremost historian of Durin’s Folk. Now the very work that had made his career could very well end it. He doubts it would but his credibility would always be questioned and that was as good as. 

“You reported what you had found at the time.” He says placatingly. “New things are being discovered all the time, contradicting what we once knew as the truth. Remember, you stand in the lost kingdom of Erebor, a place some scholars would swear was mythical. You are in a position to correct your own work.” He had thought his words were comforting but Balin had opened the book once more and was carefully turning the pages. 

“A page is missing.” He says suddenly, running his fingertip down the centre of the book. “Just as it was in Gundabad.”

“A page, which page?” 

“It would appear the last page. This is a book that documents royal announcements, I must study it further. If my suspicion is correct, Erebor is missing a dynasty.” 

“You think it announced a birth?” 

Balin nods. “An heir would usurp Fili. Who else would gain from the elimination of these records?” 

“You think Fili murdered his cousin and uncle for a seat on a throne?” 

“A seat that was promised to him, and good men have been killed for less. It could also explain why Thorin murdered his nephews.” 

“Fili was too young to rule, a kingdom such as this would be set upon, Thorin would have had to assume leadership once more. He would have been judge, jury and executioner. He wasn’t mad, he was justified. Though that does not explain why he would murder his lover.” 

“Are you even sure he did?” Balin asks. 

“You said it yourself.” 

“I don’t know what to believe anymore.” Balin says sadly, still distraught over their findings. Self-pity wasn’t a good look and his mood would only continue to sour while they remained in the library. 

“Ori says he had found something in the Grand Gallery, worth a look?” He suggests, as Balin continues to stare at the book morosely. With a reluctant nod of his head, Balin closes the book once more and stands from the stool with a crack from his old bones. 

“Did he say what he had found?” Balin asks, collecting his torch while he winds his own. 

“No, he only said he saw something. I think it was a statue.” Beyond the tomb in the dark he had seen the silhouettes of statues highlighted by the rig so it was a safe assumption. 

They leave the library and cross the Gallery of the Kings and enter the Grand gallery without incident. The tomb rig is off which is odd, and the rig in the corner remains disused. “Ori?” He calls out into the dark reluctant to step foot on uncharted territory. The ground could be a potential minefield given that a whole dynasty was potentially missing. “Ori?” He calls again, waving his torch but his light is swallowed by the darkness. “Well he was here, you don’t think he’s fallen, do you?” 

“Who’s fallen?” Nori suddenly asks from behind them and he screeches, caught by surprise. 

“Have you seen your brother?” Balin asks while he places a hand over his frantic heart as if he could physically slow it. 

“No, I’ve just come to look for him.” 

“I saw him earlier,” he offers, glad of the dark so he does not have to see the probable glare. “He said he saw something that he wanted to investigate.” 

“And you just let him go off alone, did you?” Now it has been said, it was foolish on his part but he thought Ori wouldn’t go far. In truth, he hadn’t been thinking. He had gotten his translation and he hadn’t thought more than that. If Ori had fallen and hurt himself he’d be entirely to blame for his short-sightedness. 

“Well…” he begins but he has nothing but lame excuses. 

“Quiet,” Balin insists. “Do you hear that?” Ever since the pulley system started the silence was disturbed by falling rocks, which he hears now. He eyes Balin in confusion but the elder man only presses a finger against his lips and continues to look up. The ceiling is vaulted and beautifully carved but without the rig they hadn’t a hope of seeing it. 

When he begins to lose his faith in Balin he hears it, though what it is remains a mystery. An echo of a noise emanating from the ceiling? He’d seen the ceiling for himself, there was no walkway. “The throne,” he whispers much to Balin’s annoyance until he contemplates his words. 

“Now why would he be up there for?” 

“Are you two going to tell me what you’re on about?” The cry becomes louder, a sob? A plea? The noise is distorted in the Grand Gallery. “Ori!” Nori yells immediately followed by Ori’s bone-chilling scream. It’s long, drawn out, becoming louder by the second and then they hear it. The impact of a body hitting the stone floor, the wet sound of blood and the crushing of bones. “Ori!” Nori screams, and goes to run to his brother but Balin holds him back. 

“Best you not see that laddie.” He advises and Nori falls against him, defeated. “Bilbo?” He nods his head, it isn’t something he wants to see but the alternatives don’t bear thinking about. He winds his torch and walks towards the next hall with slow timid steps.

“Nori!” He hears Bofur call and turns, shining his light on the two lovers before carrying on. He passes through the arch into the next hall and turns right assuming Ori fell from the throne walkway. 

“Ori?” He whispers in a broken voice knowing he will never be answered. He continues his approach constantly winding his torch to keep his hands from trembling. He’s reluctant to keep his eyes on the ground knowing what he is about to find and he pauses as he hears a splash from a puddle he stepped in. 

He shines a light on his boot and vomit rises in his gorge as thick blood drips from the sole. He follows the trail of blood to the crumbled disfigured and deceased body of Ori Smith. He looks so small dressed in his brother’s oversized jumper. His hands are broken and his arms are shattered as if he was trying to save himself from the impact. His neck is broken as his head is twisted to a grotesque degree, and what more damage there is he cannot see. 

He sets his torch down and removes his coat and covers Ori’s body. Ori had always been small but he was smaller now as his body had compacted by the impact. His ribs must be broken, lung and heart pierced, the internal damage doesn’t bear thinking about. 

He picks up his torch and steps away. There was no way he would have survived the fall. He blames it on morbid curiosity that has him shine his light mapping Ori’s fall to the very ledge where for a moment familiar blue eyes are reflected in his torchlight before they disappear. He waves the torch, hoping the sapphires were reflected once more but there was nothing in the darkness. 

A feeling of dread comes over him. All this time he had assumed Thorin sought redemption but what if he was wrong? What if it wasn’t redemption he wanted, but revenge?


	22. Chapter 22

“I have to see him!” Suddenly a torch shines on him and he turns to find Nori striding purposefully towards him. He hadn’t broken away from Balin’s grip, instead the elder men held on firmly and was promptly dragged along. 

“You shouldn’t.” He advises, thankful that he had the foresight to cover the body.

“Was he your brother?” Nori snaps nastily and he holds his hands up in surrender and steps aside. Mimicking his surrender, Balin releases his grip on Nori’s arms and allows him to go to the body. He takes a deep breath mustering his courage and then pulls the coat away and a strangled cry leaves his mouth as Ori’s body is exposed. “Ori why?” Nori cries desperately and falls to his knees in a puddle of his brother’s blood. 

“It’s not your fault.” Bofur says, after staying behind unsure of himself. He stands behind Nori and places his hands upon his shoulders and Nori immediately grabs his left hand with both of his and cries against it. 

“I should have known he was sad, Dori was his world. He didn’t have to jump, he could have talked to me.” 

“I don’t think he jumped.” His concern is met with silence and bemused expressions that for a moment he had wished he had remained silent. 

“What are you saying?” Nori asks. 

“I think he was pushed.” 

“Now, now, enough of this nonsense!” Balin interrupts. 

“No, I want to know why Bilbo thinks he was pushed when he obviously jumped.” 

“Obviously? He screamed.”

“Maybe he changed his mind, my brother could be overly dramatic, acts first and thinks later. He might have been considering it and then fell, why else was he up there for?” If they knew that, a great many questions would be answered. 

“Ori wasn’t depressed, I spoke to him he told me he was going to become a teacher and buy the house Dori always wanted.” Nori, who would normally bite back immediately remained uncharacteristically quiet and gazed at him in disbelief. 

“That was Ori’s dream,” he says slowly in agreement finding truth in his words. 

“What happened? Oh my God, Ori!” Kenny shouts as he and Freddy finally join them. Nori is up in and instant and advances on them.

“Where have you two been?” He demands and is then held back by Bofur. 

“It was our turn to await Gandalf in the tunnel!” Kenny cries defensively. 

“Did you push Ori?”

“Push him?” 

“Oh for Christ sake, enough of this. Ori fell and that’s the end of it.” After Balin had spoken tempers immediately calmed and Nori, who had once found himself in agreement with him resorted to casting him a venomous glare. If anything, it proved the value of Balin’s word and perpetuated his prolonged silence. He could not argue his case, he knew it sounded mad, but even if a vengeful spirit did push Ori to his death how did he lure Ori there? Ori must have found something in the dark, something that led him to the throne. If he could find it, he’d have a point to argue and a better understanding of the situation. 

He takes his leave, not before wiping the blood from his boots onto his discarded coat. The others are crowded around Ori and pay him no mind as he leaves the hall and enters the Grand Gallery. Fuel is low so he ignores the rig and passes by the tomb to walk into the oppressive darkness to where Ori once sat only hours ago. 

He takes a seat on the base, as the statue is destroyed, lying in pieces on the floor and shines his torch trying to find what had caught Ori’s attention. The other statues are perfectly intact, which makes him stand and shine the torch on the base he was seated upon. There are words written in the stone in the tongue he cannot translate but Ori could have. He looks upon the other statues once more finding them in pristine condition meaning someone had taken offence to this statue as they had the throne. He reaches for his camera around his neck and frowns when it is not there and instead he touches his ring.

His mind swims and he loses his equilibrium and doubles over as the rush of blood roars in his ears. 

 

_“Bilbo stop!” Thorin shouts, gaining on him. He’d made a mistake and ran into the Grand Gallery when he had meant to turn right and leave the mountain. He tries to lose Thorin in the labyrinth of statues but before he can pass a single one, his arm is caught and he is dragged into the King’s embrace._

_“Stop, we must stop, the people suspect.”_

_“I do not care.” Thorin says plainly cupping his face without worry. He grabs his hand, so very large against his own and casts it away._

_“I do.” He takes advantage of Thorin’s slackened grip and escapes his embrace._

_“Did my sister sons not give you my note?” He hadn’t checked the draw in some days and so he shakes his head in reply. Calmed by his answer, Thorin then lowers to one knee and holds his hand while his breath catches in response. “Will you marry me?”_

_“I…I can’t.” He says sadly taking his hand away. “I am sorry, I never meant for any of this to happen. To have met you on the day you announced your engagement was the cruellest thing of all.”_

_“No it wasn’t.” Thorin contradicts taking his hand once more. “You were sent by the Maker himself, at a time you were most needed.”_

_“You are engaged to someone else.”_

_“Azog does not love me, or I him. He marries solely for the crown and he shall have it but it will not be my head that wears it.” Now he has said it, the absence of his crown is duly noticed._

_“You cannot mean what you say, I cannot allow it, I will not.”_

_“It is already done. What kind of King would I be to rule with a broken heart? Yes I would still be King but only half the man I was. Frerin will take my place.”_

_“Maker help us all,” he laughs and wipes away tears of happiness. “Was he lost in his cup when you told him?”_

_“When is he not lost in his cup? Frerin will make a fine King with my guidance. Now, will you marry me?”_

_“A thousand times yes.” He answers and Thorin slides a gold ring onto the fourth finger on his left hand._


	23. Chapter 23

It is decided that they would move Ori’s body once the blood had congealed. A decision he was not in agreement with and to show his displeasure he had remained in the Grand Gallery while they collected the corner lighting rig.

To his dismay Balin had remained with the team, directing their actions after tempers were lost and the bickering threatened to become violent. It weighed heavy on him by not participating but already he could see there were too many chiefs and not enough Indians. His absence hadn’t even been noticed, not that he thought it would be. Emotions were still raw and made worse by their actions, but this moment was Ori’s and he could appreciate that. 

It is that appreciation that makes him wait in the dark sat on the plinth to the ruined statue while toying with the ring around his neck. Time tended to drag within the mountain but on this occasion, he found it was not so with his mind occupied by thoughts of the king. It wasn’t just the memory he dwelt on but the feeling as if he would burst from happiness. He had loved the king so much so that it hurt to imagine a life without him and yet he was willing to let him go. He didn’t value himself, and certainly didn’t believe he was worth a kingship. Thorin had thought he was worth it. Had proven it and yet he took his life.

What could have gone so wrong? Those clandestine meetings with the nephews were not conspiring against the king, instead they were conspiring with the king to pass notes to his secret love. By their actions the nephews had given the relationship their blessing. He shakes his head. Something happened and he’d already jumped to too many conclusions to hazard another guess. 

His thoughts grind to a halt as the team emerge, Kenny and Freddy at the front with Nori and Bofur at the back carrying Ori between them wrapped in his sleeping bag. Balin trails behind them all but useless now and he signals him over while the team carry on to place Ori beside his brother in the blocked exit tunnel. 

“It’s bad business Bilbo,” Balin says plucking his glasses from his face and dabbing at his watering eyes. “He was so young…” He adds sadly with a shake of his head dismissing the remainder of the sentence convinced that Ori had taken his own life. He wonders why Balin is so positive that Ori had killed himself, as apart from Dori and perhaps Nori, Balin had known Ori best. Perhaps he was privy to something he did not know and that was why he was so convinced, in the same way he was privy to something Balin did not know that had him thinking otherwise. 

The how and why would come later, as of now Ori was gone and Balin mourned him. He had been too single-minded to consider how Ori’s passing had affected Balin, their relationship was similar to his own with Gandalf and he can only imagine how devastated he would be. He feels rotten for calling Balin over now as it was inconsiderate. 

“I’m sorry for your loss.” He finally says the words he should have said in the beginning. “I understand if you need to be with him.” He is reminded of his own actions when he had found his parents dead. He had sat down on the sofa equally distanced from his mother and father and had stared at the static on the screen until the smell had driven him out. He’d just wanted one more moment of normality before he could truly accept the tragic turn of events. 

“No…no it’s alright, a moment more and my heart will break. Please tell me you’ve found something to distract me from my thoughts.” 

“I believe I have. Do you know of anyone by the name Azog?” 

“Indeed I do. Azog the Indestructible, Azog the Great but his true title was Azog the Defiler. Son of the last king of Gundabad, Azog grew angry by Thror’s decree to unite the seven kingdoms under one rule. Erebor had wealth and the Arkenstone but it was believed that Durin’s folk were born from the rock and their birthplace was Gundabad. Azog believed his right to rule was more divine than any divinity a simple stone could bestow and so he gathered an army of religious zealots and went to war with Erebor.” 

“The Blood Wars.” He says to himself, realising why the name was familiar to him and Balin nods. 

“For many years the war raged and the casualties were beyond the count of grief. King Thror perished, beheaded by Azog himself. He thought to end the war early by slaying their king, but Thrain took up arms in his father’s stead and the war continued.”

“How did the war end?” It was said that Thorin single-handedly ended the Blood Wars but he did not know the details on how he did it. 

“The war was at a stalemate as it had been for years. By this time Thrain had lost his life though how he came to his end no one quite knows. Thorin had become king and his nephews had come of age and joined their uncle on the frontline. One night, Azog and twenty of his best men snuck into the king’s camp intending to end the line of Durin. He could not find the nephews but Thorin was sat at the campfire with the King’s Guard when they attacked, ambushing them from behind and slashing their throats. Azog claimed Thorin for himself, and brought his axe down intending to behead the king but Thorin evaded the blow. Azog continued his attack on the unarmed king, single-minded and furious. The shouts had awoken the army and Azog’s men were subdued and dispatched while the Defiler continued his assault, blind to all but the king. During the melee the king had armed himself with a branch from an oak tree, with it he shielded himself from a fatal blow and then struck the Defiler beneath the chin with it, knocking him out. He could have ended the Defilers life then and there but he knew Azog’s death would not stop the zealots and would only spur them on. By then he had already lost too much and having his nephews on the battlefield hardened his resolve to end the war.”

_“Azog does not love me, or I him. He marries solely for the crown.”_

“Thorin agreed to marry him?”

_“They appreciate your sacrifice.”_

“Marriage?” Balin replies in disbelief. “I really couldn’t say. I had always believed he had promised them gold and reneged on their deal.”

“Oathbreaker,” he whispers remembering what had been written in the Gundabad Chronicles. “The ledger, it was sealed by Gundabad and Erebor, perhaps it details the terms of their contract.” 

“I imagine it would, come along.” He is glad that he has managed to rid Balin of his sorrow as he follows him into the Gallery of the Kings, passing Bofur, Kenny and Freddy on the way before disappearing into the library. 

The book is where they had left it, closed on the table in the right-hand corner. Balin moves with speed he did not know he had and collects the book, flipping through the pages without proper care. With a cheer of triumph, he holds the book out for him to see and his heart plummets. He approaches slowly hoping his hesitancy will force Balin to read the words aloud. 

“You were right,” Balin says as he reaches him. “A marriage to reconcile their differences. It’s strange that this is the only agreement, marriage.” 

“Why is that strange?” 

“There are no sanctions and no trade agreements. One of the bloodiest wars in history ended on the promise of marriage, talk about putting all your eggs in one basket.” 

“Azog wanted a crown since Thror stripped him of a kingship.”

Balin doesn’t look too sure. “A crown he was never given as Thorin abdicated.” 

“Surely the crown and terms of treaty would pass to his successor.” 

“Or it was a ruse and Thorin never intended to marry him.”

“Does it specify that Azog will marry Thorin?” 

Balin reads the passage again. “It does indeed, and it is signed.”

“Well now at least we know why he is called oathbreaker.” The missing pages weigh heavy on his mind. He was sure it would have announced the engagement of Frerin and Azog but what if it didn’t? What if Thorin had tried to trick Azog into marrying his alcoholic brother and then usurp him and regain his throne with his true love by his side? 

“Why was there no mention of this in Gundabad?” Balin asks rubbing his furrowed brow before taking a seat. 

“You said some pages were missing.” He offers. 

“A great many, as if they wish to tell their own history. They even romanticise the Blood Wars.”

“History is told by the victors.” He says with a shrug. 

“Yes, but they didn’t win.” A shiver runs down his spine and then the brief silence is shattered by a scream.


	24. Chapter 24

“Oh, what now?” Balin says exasperated but he can hear the fear in his voice. He stands with difficulty and together they exit the library and stand among the rubble eyeing the surrounding area in the dying light. They spy Nori knelt on the golden floor moments before darkness consumes them as the library light flickers and then fades. 

Reaching into his pocket, he collects his torch and quickly winds it. He shines it upon the floor so they can successfully navigate their way around the rubble and over towards where they had seen Nori. 

“Nori?” Balin calls as his light shines upon the bent back of Nori Smith. There’s nothing but silence from one breath to the next until Nori’s shoulders shake and he releases a heart rendering cry. “Nori?” Balin tries again to no reply as grief has robbed Nori of his voice. 

His devastation is palpable which frightens him. Nori had lost both brothers and yet his grief hadn’t been so strong. He can only assume the weight of his loss had finally dawned on him. He understood, possibly better than anyone and despite their differences, he crouches down beside his teammate to console him. 

He doesn’t dare to touch him, or invade his personal space as bad blood exists between them but he is willing to be there. His torchlight is fading, as the golden floor and the scuffed boot slowly submerge into darkness. He winds his torch intrigued and illuminates a right scuffed boot with frayed untied laces with a sinking feeling.

Nori’s wailing is drowned by the rush of blood in his ears as he moves the torchlight up, revealing two slightly parted legs. The thick coat hides any distinguishable features and so he moves up with the light flickering in his trembling hand. 

A scream tears its way from his throat as a messy braid is revealed in his torchlight. He climbs over the body opposite Nori mad with grief and pulls Bofur into his arms. He’d dropped his torch but Balin shines his light on him revealing Bofur’s ashen face. His eyes are wide and frightened and his lips always turned up in a smile are parted in a silent scream and tinged blue. The resemblance to how they had found Dori is not lost on him.

“He looks as though he was scared to death.” Balin says but the words aren’t comforting. He holds Bofur tighter as if it would make a difference. His hat dries his tears as if Bofur was still consoling him in death as he did in life. 

“Dori was right,” he says sadly, laying Bofur down to rest. “We need to leave.” 

“What’s happened?” Kenny and Freddy ask, summoned by their shouts. “Bofur,” his friend’s name spoken in a broken voice causes more tears to spill down his cheeks. 

“In case you’ve forgotten the exit is blocked.” Nori snaps at him, as his grief gives way to anger. 

“There has to be another way out. We go lower, or we go higher. We go somewhere because if we stay here we are all dead.” He didn’t want to cause alarm but he had no choice. They were all in danger. 

“I think I know a way out.” Freddy speaks up. “Up there.” He points up high to the back of the Gallery of the Kings. “There’s a crack in the rock, I saw the sun through it once.” Silence follows Freddy’s statement as he eyes Balin, keeping Bofur’s body out of his line of sight. 

“It’s worth a look.” He nods, eager to be away from Bofur’s body. Out of sight and out of mind but he would never be out of his heart. He had loved him as much as he was able to, not as much as Bofur desired and certainly not as much as Bofur deserved but he had touched his heart when others had not. 

He bends down and presses a kiss against Bofur’s still lips in parting. Should he leave the mountain he will not return. His dream of Erebor had become a nightmare. The halls had been quiet for a thousand years and they could remain that way for another thousand. 

He feels rather than sees Nori’s glare but he ignores it and collects his torch and joins the boys. He hadn’t ventured to the back of the hall and he trusts the boys who guide the way as he follows behind them, with Balin following close behind him and Nori lagging further behind, torn. 

The golden floor is longer than he had imagined and the hall is strangely sparse. The boys veer towards the right-hand corner and they climb up a stone spiral stairway- three turns- before they step out and walk along a wall. He sways unsteadily but Balin is there to right him and he catches up to the boys who are shining their torches upon the rock. 

“I can’t find it now.” Freddy snaps but continues his search. 

He wants to help but he feels light-headed and queasy and the ring around his neck has gained ten pounds. He holds it to lighten the load and suddenly the landscape changes. His team is gone and he has a view of the southern alps and the far-off village below. 

_“Bilbo?” He turns and watches Thorin approach with his blond-haired brother beside him._

_“What is the meaning of this?”_

_“It’s the last light of Durin’s day and I mean to marry you, my stars.” His knees weaken by his words, Thorin’s poetic heart was one of the reasons he loved him so dearly._

_He looks around the empty ramparts. “Here?”_

_“Where we shared our first kiss.”_

_“You remember?”_

_“I remember each moment that I’m with you.”_

_“Then yes, let’s marry here, my moon and my sun for never shall you be chased from my life again.”_

He wobbles unsteadily and Balin grabs his arm. His lips are moving but he cannot hear a sound as he falls under again. 

_Thorin’s watering sapphire eyes are widened by betrayal and he screams like a wounded animal._

_He still hears him as he is falling without a sound, too stunned to even scream as he was effortlessly lifted and tossed from the ramparts._

_It happened so suddenly. It ended just as suddenly._

He comes back to himself and pulls the ring from around his neck, breaking the chain and tosses it onto the stone. 

“This is where I married,” he says in stuttering breaths. “This is where I died.” His breath is shallow and his heart aches as it races in his chest. “I-I can’t breathe…I…I…can’t…” he stutters grasping his neck with shaking hands.

“It’s okay Bilbo, take deep breaths, that’s it, fill your lungs, you’re having a panic attack.” He doubles over, bracing his hands on his knees and takes deep calming breaths, steadying his heartrate. “That’s it,” Balin soothes, rubbing his back. “Now do you mind telling me what you said, where you died?”

“Where he died, Thorin’s husband. He loved him and he threw him away like trash.”

“You’re not making much sense.”

“The ring!” Kenny shouts and he straightens in panic pressing a finger against his lips to silence him as he’s already said too much. “Thorin is wearing the same one.” 

Curiosity peaked, Balin reaches for the ring before he can stop him. 

“There’s the gap.” Freddy says as a beam of moonlight shines through the mountain. 

“Yes,” Balin says without looking, studying the ring. “That will do nicely.” The boys shrug at one another and he is just as lost until Balin holds the ring up into the light. His breath catches in his throat as shapes he once thought faded read clearly in the moonlight. “Moon runes, it reads ‘My Stars,’ you say Thorin is wearing one? We should take it and hold it into the light and see what it says.” 

“My moon,” he answers. 

“And how do you know that?” Balin asks with an arched brow but laughter interrupts further questioning. 

“Because Bilbo here is the murdered spouse, that’s what you’re getting at, aren’t ya? Past life bollocks, way to make everything about you.” Nori wipes angrily at the tears that still fall. “I’m sick of this shit, I’m leaving the way we came.”

“But it’s blocked.” Kenny protests. 

“I’ll dig my way out because I’m not staying in here and with _him_ a moment longer than I have to.”

“We should stay together,” Balin says calmly. “When Gandalf arrives…”

“Gandalf isn’t coming back!” Nori yells. “If he were he would be back by now. We’re on our own, we always have been… I always have been.” He mutters the latter sadly. 

“The mountain is dangerous,” Balin tries again.

“No, he’s dangerous!” Nori snaps pointing directly at him. “Did anyone ever ask what the fuck is he doing here? Seriously? You shouldn’t be here.” Nori says coldly to him. “Everything went wrong when you arrived, and what is it you do exactly? Break shit, that’s all you’ve done and we had to wait six days for you, why?” 

He should defend himself, but he can feel himself shrinking from Nori’s ire. He is not combative- it is not in his nature- and here of all places, no, history will not repeat itself. Out of the corner of his eye he can see the boys rolling their shoulders readying for a fight and he won’t allow that. This place is cursed, it’s stained with blood and lies. Maybe Nori is an insecure boyfriend and hates him because of his jealousy or maybe there’s something more, something sinister, something that entered the mountain and never left. Nori’s anger towards him began when they had entered the mountain, and there was a moment in the tomb when he looked at him with eyes that were not his own. 

Verbally he should defend himself but he had no defence as he had even questioned his addition to the team. It was true, to find Erebor was a lifelong ambition but ask anyone with a sense of adventure and they would say the same. Gandalf had pulled some strings to get him here, he knew that much, but to make the team wait six days when he knew he was in Siberia was odd, even for him. 

No defence was the best defence. 

“No answer, thought as much, coward. I’m not dying for you. If there is something, you released it. If the rest of you want to stay with him it’s your fucking funeral.” To both his and Nori’s surprise, no one speaks against him and their silence speaks volumes. Nori had become bolstered by his unrefuted claims but now faced with adversary his shoulders slump and his chest deflates. He casts one long menacing stare at the others before turning and stomping away. 

He’s seemingly trying to make a point of his departure by the racket is he making. All they can do is watch as his torchlight appears on the golden floor before disappearing up the steps as his footsteps fade to silence. 

“The gaps no good,” he finally speaks up. “We’re too high up, without our tools we’ll fall to our deaths. If we have any hope of leaving this mountain alive then we must search lower.” 

“What about Nori?” Kenny asks. 

“He’ll escape or he’ll bring the whole bloody lot down on top of him. He’s beyond our help now.” Balin says firmly but with emotion. 

With hesitation they leave the ramparts and descend down the stairs, their pace slow and unsure. “We’ll go to the forge,” Balin speaks up, rallying them. “Down those stairs there.” The boys nod slowly, with hope returning in their eyes. 

It sparks a flame of hope within him, as they walk across the golden floor and into the Grand Gallery but it is quickly quashed as Nori’s words return to haunt him. Balin and the boys race ahead of him as he pauses, conflicted. Nori was raging, but there was truth in his words. He broke the prayer ritual, he had brought this curse upon them. The others may not believe, but he knew the truth. 

“Bilbo, are you coming?” Kenny asks from the dark as the third lighting rig had burned out. 

“No.” He finally answers. Nori was right, as long as they stayed with him they were in danger. 

“What do you mean, come on.” Kenny insists. “Balin!” He tattles on him and a small smile tugs at his lips. 

“What’s going on?” Balin asks, voice sounding closer but he still cannot see him and he thinks that’s for the best. 

“Go on without me, there’s something I must do and then I will follow, I promise.” 

“We really should stay together.” Balin says slowly as if speaking to a simpleton. It was the tone of voice he had feared Balin would use once he discovered his past life theory. His credibility was lost but his compassion was not and he refused to lose another friend. 

“Look after the boys and I’ll join you later.” Maybe if he could see Balin’s face he would be dissuaded from his course but the darkness gives him courage he would normally lack. 

“Very well,” Balin hesitantly agrees.

“What?” Kenny splutters in shock. 

“Come on Kenny, Bilbo will catch up to us.” His comforting words are hollow, he doesn’t believe he is coming back and he can accept that because it’s the truth. 

He listens as they walk away and winds his torch. If Thorin seeks revenge then he will satisfy his vengeance. His life for those that remain of the team.


	25. Chapter 25

With an unsteady hand he illuminates the lighting rig but his movements falter and his hand drops to his side as the light dies, shrouding him in darkness once more. He drops his head, ashamed of his actions and promptly shakes it in denial. He doesn’t want to die. A simple truth but the consequences should he not act selflessly would be disastrous for the team. 

All of his life he had been selfish. His actions had not been malicious but rather naïve. He felt disconnected to the world and the people around him and he tended to act before he thought or considered other people’s feelings. He’d always felt so small and insignificant that he hadn’t believed anyone would care enough to even be upset with him. 

He fears old habits die hard as his feet will not move. He could have made more of his life, he could have tried. He should have gotten married and adopted some kids, or in the very least adopted a dog but he was never home. Always too busy trying to find himself and now here in the dark he is found but his life will be lost. 

He turns on his heels and walks towards the Gallery of the Kings. He isn’t a white knight, he doesn’t even play the lead in the story of his own life. If the others are holding out for a hero then they are fucked. 

He quickens his pace as he winds his torch and breathes a sigh of relief as the golden floor is illuminated by his torchlight. 

He stops suddenly, remembering what lies upon that floor.

Bofur.

His heart aches from the loss of him; a bright light in a dark world forever snuffed out. He loved easily and he had so much left to give, just as Ori had. At least Bofur had experienced life whereas Ori was just beginning his. So much potential, so much good he could have done, lost. Even Dori, accomplished in his own way, family orientated and fulfilled by the love of his brothers. A fulfilment he would never know. Dreams lost that he had never had. 

He turns back, resolute. He won’t let someone else die in his stead, it was time he became the hero of his own story. 

There’s half a tank of fuel left in the rig and he turns it on and places his torch into his pocket and climbs down the ladder. The smell makes him gag and he dry heaves twice before covering his nose and mouth with his shirt. 

“I’m here.” He says, voice muffled by his shirt. “Thorin, I’m here.” Nothing happens and so he walks over to the shattered lid and looks upon the piece Balin had turned over. Thorin had fought hard to escape his confinement, breaking and bloodying his fingers as his lungs were deprived of oxygen. Thorin hadn’t wanted to die. At the very least they had that in common. 

He approaches the sarcophagus and looks down at the king. “Thorin?” The bones don’t move. He didn’t think they would. “Thorin I’m here now.” No response. He edges closer to the sarcophagus and hovers his hand over Thorin’s skeletal right hand. “If you ever loved me at all then please stop.” He pleads and then carefully places his hand over Thorin’s mindful of his fractured fingers and closes his eyes accepting his fate. 

_Music and laughter._

He opens his eyes and finds himself transported to another time and place. 

_The banquet hall rang with the sound of music and merrymaking. He smiled as he brought a silver chalice to his lips and drank the spiced wine that tingled on his tongue. He turns his head to the left as his left hand is lifted and scratchy kisses are placed upon it._

_Thorin’s amorous actions are only encouraged by his attention, as he watches him, watching him. He is bold in his advances but the novelty of touch had been foreign to them both. He had naively believed that Thorin’s lust for him was born from the secrecy of their romance and it gladdens his heart to know that he is mistaken. Thorin had relinquished his crown for him. He gently cards his fingers through his thick black hair where the crown once sat. The crown did not make the man, Thorin is still as powerful as he was, more so now strengthened by his convictions. He would always be a king to him._

_Now free to touch, he captures Thorin’s braided beard with his right hand and pulls him forward into a kiss. It is only chaste as he is not as bold nor as brave as Thorin but he wished to mirror his actions to prove his feelings were just as strong._

_It lasts only a moment, a mere grain of sand in an hourglass, before the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he feels as if they are being watched. As soon as he feels uncomfortable they are interrupted by obnoxious laughter and loud smacking of lips in mockery. He releases Thorin’s beard and sits back in his chair and eyes Fili and Kili stood before their table, arms around each other kissing the air in imitation._

_He shakes his head amused by the spectacle thankful that his worry was for nothing. No one else pays them any attention as they are lost in their cups, happily chatting and dancing. He is somewhat dismayed to see that even the King’s Guard have partaken in drink and stagger around the dancefloor, merry._

_Fili and Kili are both dressed in full regalia having been promoted to King’s Guard. They part from each other wearing matching roguish grins and bow simultaneously. They do not stagger as their brethren do so he can only assume they have not partaken in wine and a good thing too, as the devil was already within them._

_“Where is your mother?” Thorin asks as the boys simply bat their eyelashes. Nuisances, the pair of them, but they were harmless and had been complicit in their affair. They turn and point at the same time to reveal the princess swept up and swallowed in the arms of the man he had danced with on his first night in Erebor. Thorin does not appear concerned for his sister’s honour and so he can only assume he was making conversation._

_A loud clatter echoes in the hall followed by drunken laughter. He looks towards the head table situated in the centre near the back wall and finds King Frerin slumped over the table reaching for a silver platter and a pitcher he had knocked off the table. Realising he cannot reach, he sits back in his chair with his onyx crown askew chuckling to himself. He turns his attention to Azog who is seated beside his husband of an hour ago. Obviously, he looks displeased, although his scarred pale face makes his displeasure appear to be scathing fury._

_“Thorin…” he says without need as his husband stood._

_“I’ll have a word.” He presses a kiss against his forehead and leaves their table by the right wall to confront his brother._

_The commotion had calmed the boys’ revelry as they share a nervous look with each other unsure as to what to do. As King’s Guard it is their sworn duty to protect the king but it appears Frerin would require protection from himself as he had always been a slave to drink._

_He watches as Thorin approaches the table and leans down beside his brother, with his long dark hair thrown over one shoulder as he whispers to him. As his brother’s keeper, Thorin would not embarrass him and if he is reprimanding him it certainly doesn’t appear that way. Frerin doesn’t appear chastised as he nods and pats Thorin’s cheek with a dopey smile on his face, too lost in his cup to understand a word that is being said to him._

_The resemblance between Thorin and Frerin and Fili and Kili is uncanny as he looks between them. Fili has Frerin’s long blond hair and blue eyes and in an act of imitation he had braided his moustache as Frerin wore his. He is young still, and his beard hadn’t grown long enough to braid so instead he had added braids into his dirty blond hair, two at the front and two behind his ears like Thorin wore his. Despite his appearance, Fili is more level-headed than his brother, as he was once groomed to be king he could not afford to be ruled by his emotions. Kili on the other hand had Thorin’s wild black hair and explosive temper but none of his self-control. In that regard he took after Frerin being the second son and not judged as harshly. His eyes are brown like his mother’s and his age is reflected in his black stubble around his mouth and a sly grin that always graces his lips._

_Thorin finishes his conversation with his brother and takes his leave after he has shaken his hand. He thinks he will join him at their table once more and is surprised when Thorin turns to walk onto the dancefloor instead. He continues to watch him, enraptured, as Thorin turns to look at him and crooks his finger, summoning him. He stands immediately and ignores the suggestive winks from the boys as he joins his husband on the dancefloor._

_He doesn’t recognise the tune but it doesn’t matter as there is no rhyme or reason for the dancing. Thorin reaches out with his right hand to rest on his left hip and they turn together reminding him of the first night they met. He tilts his head up and looks into sapphire eyes that had him spellbound and held him captive ever since._

_“This should have been our celebration.” Thorin says in disappointment. Their marriage had mirrored their relationship, quick and quiet with no official announcement which troubled Thorin more than it did himself._

_“I do not require this.” He admits and then places his hand over Thorin’s heart. “This is all that I desire.” The hairs on the back of his neck stand up but his fears are chased away as Thorin smiles and places a sweet kiss against his lips._

_The drumming stops but the dancers carry on oblivious. With a clear head, he cannot do the same and so he steps away moments before the sound of two fiddles fill the hall. A small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as he recognizes the tune as the summer solstice and he rises up on tip toes to see Fili and Kili looking back playing their fiddles with mischievous grins._

_“Our first dance.” Thorin says in recognition of the song and bows, as the dance dictates. He bows in reply and then holds his right hand up, ruining the dance as they once did before. Thorin’s hand presses against his own, hot to the touch as always, and they circle one another, trapped in each other’s orbit, an imprisonment he was content with._

_Time stills and his world shrinks so much so that it can just encompass the two of them. An eternity trapped within a moment. A paradise found and shared but the feeling of unease follows him even here breaking the spell. He disguises his unease with a smile and can’t help but notice that Thorin seems just as uncomfortable, casting suspicious glances over his shoulder every so often._

_“Come,” Thorin says, holding his hand out to him before the song had finished. He takes it, happy to be away from the foreboding atmosphere and finds himself running to keep up with Thorin’s quick pace._

_“Where are we going?” He asks as Thorin begins to run dragging him along._

_“I want to show you something.” He laughs breathlessly and continues to run, mindless of their path just happy to be away and alone with the one that he loved._

_He has an inkling of their destination as they run a long distance to the front of the hall and then climb stone spiral steps, completing eight turns before they walk out onto the ramparts._

_“This is what you wished to show me?” He asks confused as Thorin continues to lead him along the wall._

_“I wanted to show you that.” He says pointing and he looks out across the misty mountains far below where orange torches illuminate his village. “They feast tonight, in honour of our marriage.” Thorin captures both of his hands then and presses kisses to the back of them. “They are under Erebor’s protection now and you, you are under my protection.”_

_“Thank you,” he says overcome with emotion and returns his kisses. “When I came to Erebor, I wished only for your aid. I never imagined that I would steal your heart.”_

_“You cannot steal something freely given and I’d like to think it was an exchange, or do I not have your heart?”_

_“You do. My soul and my life as well. You are mine and I am yours, forever.” Thorin leans down to share a kiss but the foreboding feeling returns followed by footsteps._

_“How touching.” Someone says insincerely and he and Thorin part to eye the stranger._

_“King Azog,” Thorin says with a bow and it turns his stomach. Thorin shouldn’t have to bow to that monster. If Thorin can be magnanimous then so could he, and so he bows as well to not bring shame upon his husband. “May I congratulate you on your marriage and wish you both good health and long life.” Azog only has eyes for Thorin, as his presence has not been acknowledged but given the awful look on the scarred face he rather liked his invisibility._

_Azog should have returned the sentiment but he does not, as he simply stands still, seven foot of solid muscle towering over the pair of them. “Where is Frerin?” Thorin asks out of politeness as the conversation had died a premature death._

_“You know Frerin, he was lost in his cups and unfortunately he lost his head.” He feels a sense of panic fearing Frerin’s drunken behaviour had endangered the armistice but Azog appears nonchalant as he routes through a brown sack he had brought with him._

_He shares a look of confusion with Thorin before they turn back and watch as long blond hair spills out of the sack as Azog lifts a severed head. They know who it is but they wait in morbid curiosity and disbelief for the head to turn to see Frerin’s widened blue eyes and parted mouth._

_Immediately Thorin draws his sword and pushes him back against the wall. “What is the meaning of this?” He demands furiously as he approaches Azog, who negligently tosses Frerin’s head at his feet in response._

_“And before you try and pass me off to your sister she has met the same fate.” Azog had not come alone as he and Thorin are suddenly surrounded on both sides. He doesn’t see who threw it, he only sees the severed head of Princess Dis roll by their feet, her pale face bloody and bruised._

_Thorin lunges then. Blinded by his rage he could only see Azog and is ill-prepared for an assault from behind. “Grab him!” Azog orders and Thorin is quickly disarmed and forced to his knees with a well-placed kick. Two of Azog’s men hold his arms out by his sides so he cannot amount a defence._

_“No!” He screams as Azog approaches fearing he will take Thorin’s life._

_Thorin’s watering sapphire eyes are widened by betrayal and then he screams like a wounded animal as Azog’s hand closes around his neck._

_He stumbles forward, and Thorin is on his knees screaming with the fire of hell burning in his eyes. He turns quickly and sees a carbon copy of himself lifted by the neck and tossed over the ramparts with ease. He doesn’t even scream, he never had the chance._

_“Why?” Thorin wails, and the sound of his distress is heart-breaking._

_“You dare question me, Oathbreaker?” Azog replies venomously and grabs Thorin by the beard, forcing his lowered head up so he is forced to meet his gaze. “I was to marry you.” Thorin shakes his head in denial and calms when Azog brandishes a knife, welcoming death. It does not come, instead Azog severs his beard in an act of triumph over a defeated enemy._

_“Bring him,” Azog snarls bitterly and makes towards the stairs. Thorin half-heartedly fights his captors as he is dragged to his feet and pulled along to follow behind Azog. He follows along, no longer a part of the scene but a witness to it, moving in shadows._

_Three turns and they spill out onto the golden floor of the Gallery of the Kings. Erebor infantry men lie dead upon the golden floor with blood frothing from their still mouths. “Do not think help is coming. I poisoned the wine.” He rubs at his own mouth remembering the tingling sensation of the spiced wine._

_They turn towards the large doors to exit the mountain when scuffling sounds behind them. They turn again and watch as Prince Fili and Kili are dragged towards them fighting tooth and nail with their captors much to Azog’s chagrin._

_“Not all partook in my wine. Very well, I have a new idea, follow me.” Azog turns right and the others follow._

_“No, Azog no!” Thorin fights harder, forcing his feet to the ground. “Leave them be. Take your vengeance from me.” Azog stops and returns to Thorin’s side and caresses his cheek much to Thorin’s disgust._

_“Oh but I am. You forced me to love you, now I’m going to force you to hate me. Take them to the forge!”_

_“No you bastard, you fucking bastard! I’ll kill you!” Azog only smirks in reply and they continue towards the forge with Fili and Kili fighting more desperately realising their fate. They are both struck on the back of the skull to subdue them and he wipes at his tears as he follows behind watching the past in the present._

_The smiths are dead, cut down where they worked as their kin celebrated in the halls below. The furnaces are still ablaze and Azog approaches the first one and pulls on a chain opening the hatch and frowns as the gold hadn’t liquidised. He moves on to the next one and opens the hatch, hooting in triumph as gold spills into the groves chiselled into the floor._

_Nothing happens from one moment until the next as they are seemingly transfixed by the gold. He is also mesmerised by it as he once was before and doesn’t see Fili and Kili being dragged closer to the gold._

_“Azog no! No!” Thorin yells._

_“They were complicit in your affair. I will not be made a fool of. Dump them.” The screaming is horrific as Fili and Kili are both tossed into the stream of gold. They try to swim as their skin burns and as they scream gold enters their mouths. Their strength and youth only prolongs their torture and it is a bittersweet relief when they do not come up for air and perish in the gold._

_Thorin is beside himself, robbed of speech, his heart had been torn from his chest leaving him desolate. He doesn’t fight as they pull him out of the forge, stopping briefly in the Grand Gallery while Azog destroys a statue of himself and Frerin commemorating their marriage before continuing their journey out of the mountain. A bridge has been built to get to the next mountain but they ignore it and start to climb down the side of the mountain. There’s a hidden path there, newly made by Thorin’s surprise of it. They walk along it and come upon a small opening hidden by foliage._

_A torch is lit as they enter the mountain. The tunnelling is shabby and done quickly he notices as they are led to one lone room. Azog enters first and then Thorin is dragged in. He sneaks by unseen and watches Thorin’s eyes land upon the tomb- his tomb- and his fighting is renewed. He had lost a lot, but in this moment, he has realised there is still more to lose._

_“No!” His pleading hadn’t worked so far, it still doesn’t. Azog approaches him again and wipes at the tears that run down his face before forcing a kiss against his screaming lips. Thorin bites him as a consequence and Azog slaps him in return and touches his bloody lip in disbelief._

_“Do it!” He orders and more men filter in through the tunnel as Thorin is lifted and thrown into the tomb. He sits up immediately, punching and kicking, trying desperately to escape and is pummelled in return as the lid is lifted. “Wait!” Azog yells and before Thorin’s eyes he takes a pickaxe and chisels off the prayer ritual. “I curse you in this life and the next. May you never know happiness, Oathbreaker.”_

_“The day will come when we shall return and we shall end your filthy bloodline!” A hard punch to the jaw makes Thorin sprawl in his tomb._

_“Until then, Oathbreaker.” Azog says and helps place the lid over the sarcophagus. “See that this tomb never sees the light of day!” He yells at an underling and then leaves without hearing Thorin’s final breath. Thorin’s words were the same, he said them as if in prayer, death was only the beginning and he would have his vengeance._

 

Bilbo releases Thorin’s hand in shock and staggers back and accidently knocks into the statues. A putrid smell assaults his nostrils and he turns to see that the arm had finally fallen off and thick liquid was pouring from the hole. He takes a closer look, gagging from the smell and sees bone and liquidised flesh. The stages of decay prolonged by its encasement in gold. He had found the Princes. 

“Bilbo?” A voice sounds behind him and he turns to see the boys. A brief flash of memory and he sees them how they once were, in full regalia of the King’s Guard. The next moment they stand as they always have, in thick trousers and coats. 

“Who are you?”


	26. Chapter 26

“Who are you?” He asks again as the boys share a look of concern. “Where’s Balin? What have you done to him?” 

“What?” The boys’ question in disbelief. 

“Why are you doing this?” He demands, casting his gaze towards the rope ladder. They both stand closer to it than himself effectively blocking his only exit. 

“Bilbo, are you okay?” Kenny asks sounding genuinely concerned that he could almost believe him. Almost. 

“It was you two the whole time.” He gasps in realisation. Balin had suspected that it was them who had set the furnace ablaze and were the ones terrorizing Dori. When Dori had died, the boys had emerged from the shadows together and they were the last to arrive after Ori was pushed, giving them ample time to have pushed Ori, come down the stairs and join them. Then there was Bofur who left with the boys while Nori grieved in the tunnel alone with his baby brother. “How did you kill Bofur and Dori? Where is Balin?” He demands, voice growing louder with every accusation. 

“Killed? We haven’t killed anyone. We were looking for an exit and we got distracted by a jewel-encrusted breastplate in the armoury. Then we couldn’t find Balin so we came back here to ask you if you knew where he was.” 

“What have you done to him?” He repeats fearing the worst. 

“What is that God awful smell?” Freddy asks, changing the subject. 

“As if you don’t know.” The boys’ approach and he scurries away unscathed as their interest lies upon the broken statue. 

“Is that a bone?” Kenny asks alarmed while he steadily moves away, back against the piled rubble. 

“All this time I thought Thorin sought revenge but it wasn’t him, it was you two.” Sardonic laughter erupts behind him and the brick at his back gives way. He moves away until the backs of his thighs hit the sarcophagus and coughs as the stagnant air is filled with dust from the fallen rock. 

There is a sudden breeze in the air, thick with the scent of tobacco, that soon clears the dust. He rubs at his eyes, making them water and clearing his vision when he hears footsteps and the tap of wood hitting the stone floor. 

He looks at the brothers and finds them just as perplexed as he is and when he turns back he sees the silhouette of a large man standing in the uncovered entrance. 

“Gandalf?” He says in disbelief as his old friend enters the tomb leaning heavily on his walking staff. He steps forward to welcome him but pauses after one step by the look in Gandalf’s eyes. Usually his eccentric friend would announce his name to the heavens and open his arms for a warm embrace but there is no welcome in his eyes and his arms remain by his sides. 

“Gandalf?” He questions again, unsure and takes a step back. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and he looks at the boys out of the corner of his eye finding them just as lost. 

He’d like to think it was with a heavy heart that Gandalf nodded his head, only once, sorrowful but determined. There’s scuffling and exerted breath before two figures enter the room. His heart plummets as he sees Balin battered and bloody held by a muscular forearm across his throat and the barrel of a gun pressed against his temple. He faintly recognizes the man holding Balin as the head monk Gandalf had spoken to before they had entered the mountain. He stands at an intimidating six foot five and his pale skin makes him appear ethereal. 

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Kenny lunge forward to avenge Balin but Freddy holds him back. Even after all of these years, Freddy remains the sensible one. “What the fuck?” Kenny exclaims instead, sharing his sentiments. 

“Gandalf what is going on?” He asks since Kenny’s question remained unanswered. 

“Oh Bilbo, my dear boy, I did warn you about that overactive imagination, didn’t I?” He doesn’t answer, he can’t, as he waits in fear for Gandalf’s next words. “There are no monsters only men.” He shakes his head in denial and blinks back tears that sting his eyes. 

“Please, let Balin go and we can talk.” Gandalf shakes his head in reply. 

“I remember the day when I first saw you, I knew that you were special.” Gandalf says, apropos of nothing. “My grandmother was a psychic; did I ever say?” He had in one of the multiple versions of his childhood, one of many he hadn’t believed. “Unfortunately, her gift didn’t pass to me, not entirely. I saw enough to know it was there but not enough to know what it was. You were just a boy when I first saw you, but the energy around you was ancient. You did not belong there, you were out of place and out of time. It was a wonderous thing, truly, and I thought that if I were to take you under my wing you would lead me to my fortune.” He shakes his head in denial. Gandalf had shown no interest in treasure. 

Gandalf’s visage darkens at the memory. “Many times you almost led me to my ruin, always accepting my charity and never returning the favour.” His jaw drops in response to the accusation. It was true, Gandalf regularly footed the bill and though he was always grateful as time wore on he may have not shown enough gratitude. It had become old hat and he had become expectant rather than hopeful of Gandalf’s generosity but he was never ungrateful. 

“I would have given you anything.” He admits sadly, feeling crushed beneath Gandalf’s withering gaze. 

“But you don’t have anything.” Gandalf counters and he cannot refute the truth. His parents died without insurance policies and what little they had in the bank went towards their funerals. They had owned their own home but the housing market had crashed. He had tried to wait it out until the agony of living where his parents had died became too much and he had to drastically lower the asking price just to be done with the place. “Except maybe this,” Gandalf continues holding his gold-plated chain with his ring attached. Balin must have pocketed it upon the ramparts after reading the runes. 

“That’s mine.” He hisses nastily. His father had given him that ring. Thorin had given him that ring. 

“I remember when this was first given to you. You flaunted it so proudly. I said I could value it for you and you balked at my suggestion. All the things I had to go without for your keep but you would not part from this ring. Do not claim you would give me anything when time and again you have proven that you would not.” 

He does not reply, there are no words and his tongue feels dry from the absence of them. He holds his hand out for his ring to be returned only to have his silent request denied. He thought it would be. “It was soon after receiving this ring that you asked me about Erebor, you’d never mentioned it before but I paid no mind, everyone asks about the lost Kingdom at some point in their lives.” Gandalf goes on having a lot to say for himself, publicly airing thirty plus years of grievances. “Most people stop after a fashion but you would speak of nothing else and even wrote your thesis on the existence of Erebor. I thought my time and patience had finally paid off but all you did was talk of Erebor, talk and take, talk and take, getting me further into debt.” 

A part of him wishes to run away and hide, stick his fingers into his ears and silence Gandalf’s vicious words but he stays. If his heart must be broken to know the truth then it must be. 

“Imagine my surprise when Thranduil tells me of two promising young boys- brothers- that shared your obsession with Erebor.” A chill runs down his spine as Gandalf turns his attention towards the boys and his heart plummets. Freddy is still restraining Kenny but the fear on both their faces forces him to give up his position and stand in front of them, defensively. 

“You leave them alone.” 

“Make up your mind Bilbo,” Gandalf warns scathingly. “Choose your villain. Is it me or them or the pile of bones over there?” Without a word he eyes the sarcophagus feeling every bit the fool that he was. Gandalf was right, there were no monsters only men. “I thought nothing of it, until I received an interesting phone call. The Dalton’s had caused quite a stir with their map theory and there have been eyes on you for many years.” He opens his mouth to speak but Gandalf holds up a silencing hand. “Let me just start by saying I didn’t believe a word they were saying and I can honestly say I believed Erebor was a myth. I’m not your enemy here Bilbo, I’m just a man earning his due.” 

“You sold me out. You pushed Ori!” He screams the accusation realising those familiar blue eyes he had seen were not Thorin’s but Gandalf’s. His mentor had never left, he had remained in the mountain the whole time. 

“Sacrifices had to be made, yes.” Gandalf admits with a nonchalant shrug. 

“You killed Dori…and…Bofur…” he says, voice breaking. 

“Nori as well.” Gandalf adds as casually as mentioning the weather and throws Nori’s camera to the floor as unperturbed as Azog had been when casting Frerin’s head to the floor. 

“You brought them here!” The team had always struck him as odd, and he knew Gandalf had his reasons for assembling them but he could have never foreseen his malicious intentions. 

“I perhaps made the phone calls but their own fates were sealed long ago. I’ve told you before that I am not the villain, I’m merely a pawn. If you are looking for someone to blame look no further than the sad sack over there.” He looks over his shoulder but sees no one. “The idiot king.” Gandalf says with disgust and approaches the sarcophagus. “Couldn’t die quietly, could you?” He addresses the body before looking back at him. “With his dying breath he swore vengeance and his threat held some weight, so much so the Brotherhood of Azog was formed. They took an oath to protect the secret of the tomb and the existence of Erebor. In fact, my good friend Bolg over there is a direct descendant of Azog the Great.” 

“Alexander was Great, Azog was a cold-blooded murderer!”

“Still your tongue.” Bolg warns, tightening his grip making Balin whimper. He does have a similar appearance to the Defiler though he is not as tall nor muscular he is very close. He shares the same complexion and has a bald head but he is without scars. His eyes are spaced far apart like Azog’s were but the blue is dimmed by cataracts in both eyes. His ears are small and flat unlike Azog’s protruding bat-like ones but their mouths are the same. Thin, almost lipless and downturned as if they had never smiled a day in their life. 

He tightens his mouth in response wanting to argue but not wishing to endanger Balin. “Why bring us here?” He asks, turning towards Gandalf. The older man is still by the tomb and as he watches him, Gandalf reaches inside. 

“He won’t need this anymore.” He says and then there is a crunch as he pulls the ring and chain from Thorin’s neck, severing his spine and pockets the ring. His hands clench into fists at his side. Gandalf knew how much he resented Howard Carter for what he did to Tutankhamun’s body and so he can only assume it was deliberate. It was also worrying that Gandalf would damage something of historical importance. He wouldn’t unless the find was to never see the light of day. Gandalf’s actions were a message, a foreshadowing of what is to come. 

“You don’t have to do this.” He pleads thinking if he kept Gandalf talking he might find a chink in his armour and get through to the man he knew. 

For a moment there is a touch of sadness expressed on Gandalf’s face, but as soon as it appears it is gone. “My conscience did get the better of me when you fell and found the tomb. I suggested we all leave, if you remember? It won’t happen again, we are too far down the rabbit hole and my conscience has been paid.” 

“Your thirty pieces of silver!” Kenny spits. 

“Oh no my dear boy, do not sell yourself short. For my part they gave me this.” He reaches into his robes-grey- like the Brotherhood of Azog wore- he should have known, and produces the most magnificent gem he had ever seen. 

“The Arkenstone.” Balin whispers transfixed by the swirling colours resembling a galaxy trapped within glass. 

“Of course, I cannot say where I found it, Erebor must remain a secret.”

“How do you suppose to do that now we all know the secret?” Kenny asks, and he admires his naivety and frankly given the current events he was envious of it. 

“The team is expendable, I made sure of that.” He had feared he might say something like that. “My directions were simple, allow the boys to find the sigil and locate Erebor and then I was to bring you and Balin but there could be no witnesses, no one who would ask too many questions. As Ori was Balin’s second, he would know what became of his mentor so he had to meet the same fate. Dori comes with Ori, so Nori would know but Nori was seeing Bofur so they all had to disappear. Unfortunately, Thranduil got wind of my plan and had a friend mix up the sigil with the Maori exhibition travelling New York. In return, I called the headmaster at the university and told of his sordid affair with his pupil and advised that he should leave. I meant leave with Bard, I never thought he would take the toy boy.” Gandalf laughs. “This cover-up goes further than you could imagine Bilbo. Erebor was never lost it was hidden and it will remain that way. Ask Balin.” His jaw drops. 

“Balin?” He asks in disbelief but the older man stares at him in confusion. 

“Balin knows better than anyone the lengths they will go to cover up the past.” 

“What is he talking about?” Freddy asks as he and Kenny have been rendered speechless. 

“The Gundabad Chronicles.” Balin finally answers. “There were not thirteen chapters, there were fourteen. As I explored the mountain I came upon the banquet hall and that’s where I found the bodies, hundreds of them, some still wearing their finery. It was a massacre.” 

“In Gundabad?” He asks knowing the same fate befell the Erebor inhabitants. Balin nods. 

“I could not make sense of it but I recorded my findings and took pictures but my publishers refused to print that chapter. They took my dictaphone and memory cards and all of my research and swore me to silence. I should have never signed that waiver but I was selfish in that regard and I thought to make amends here. I asked for everything to be documented, written, photographed and recorded so the same fate would not befall me again.” The reason for Ori’s leather-bound book becomes clear, as it always struck him as odd that Balin chose to write instead of record. 

“A nice try,” Gandalf says insincerely and produces the book from his robe. It had last been in Ori’s possession proving without doubt that he had been the one to push the youngster to his death. He tosses the book onto the floor beside Nori’s broken camera. 

“Did you take my batteries?” He asks, as only Gandalf knew where he kept his spares. 

“Don’t ask questions you already know the answers to, it’s exhausting and so is this conversation.” It happens so suddenly he has no time to react as Gandalf approaches Balin and clutches a fistful of white hair streaked with blood and as Bolg removes his forearm he runs a hunting knife across his throat, slashing him open from ear to ear before moving away covered in the historian’s blood. 

Someone screams like a wounded animal behind him, it could be Kenny, he can’t be sure. He holds his arms out, blocking the boys should they decide to act impulsively while he watches Balin’s body drop to the ground lifeless. 

He can’t find the words. He knew what Gandalf had done but he hadn’t quite believed it. Now seeing this his innocence is lost and he no longer sees a friend but the monster Gandalf truly is. 

“How did you kill Bofur and Dori?” He finally asks, punishing himself for not recognizing the monster sooner. 

“Air embolism.” Quick and painless, a small mercy. “I’ve done my part now,” Gandalf says to Bolg, looking shaken now there was physically blood on his hands. Bolg nods once, with his gun still directed at him and the brothers, giving Gandalf silent permission to leave. 

“Coward!” He spits as Gandalf makes his way towards the exit. 

“I respect you too much to watch you die like a dog. I never wanted this for you Bilbo but it is out of my hands. For what it’s worth I am sorry and I hope by answering your questions I’ve given you some closure.”

“Closure! You condemned me, them, all of us for a fucking stone!” Gandalf’s mouth tightens.

“You have never known hunger thanks to me, and now you never will.” His jaw drops as Gandalf takes the high road and leaves them to their fate. 

“Azog wasn’t great.” He turns his ire upon Bolg. “He was a murderer known as the Defiler.” 

“A name the Oathbreaker gave him.”

“He was known that long before the Blood Wars and what oath did he break?” He hadn’t broken his oath, he had simply made a mistake not seeing Azog’s obsession for what it was. 

“Azog was to marry Thorin but the night before their marriage, Thorin murdered his siblings and nephews and poisoned the wine and blamed it on Azog. The Mad King had to be stopped and Azog put an end to him but his evil knew no bounds. Azog had to chisel off the prayer ritual to contain his evil but even then, it was foretold that should his tomb see the light of day the Mad King would return to seek revenge.” 

“That’s bullshit! His only crime was to love the wrong person. Azog didn’t deserve his heart, couldn’t earn his love so he took his life. This brotherhood you have is a cult of liars. By sealing this tomb you are perpetuating lies.”

“I will not listen to the agent of the Mad King.” His jaw drops in response. Bolg genuinely believed he was a demon and his actions towards such evil were noble. 

“You won’t get away with this.” Kenny shouts, and he truly wished he believed that as much as Kenny did. 

“We have protected this mountain for a thousand years and we will protect it for a thousand more, in the name of Azog the Great.” He balls his hands into fists and they shake by his side. Arguing won’t solve anything, Bolg is too far gone mentally. 

“There stands prince Fili and Kili reincarnated. The true heirs of Erebor, this mountain is their birth right, how could you deny them that? If they were Thorin’s victims why would they come back as his agents? And if you believe they were his victims why will you rob them of life a second time?” He tries to reason, ignoring the boys’ questioning looks. 

The gun shakes in Bolg’s hand as he removes the safety. His words have gotten to him but his brainwashing was too much. He aims at Freddy and he lunges at him without thought and tries to wrestle the gun from his hand. 

A single shot is fired during the melee and the fight stops as Bolg stares at him. He glares back, securing the gun in his own hand before he staggers back and falls to the ground. The boys shout then and as Bolg turns towards them, he fires two shots, catching him in the neck and the second shot in the shoulder. He presses a finger against his lips silencing the boys as Bolg clutches his neck trying but failing to stem the bleeding. 

He looks like a fish out of water as he drops to the ground, with his grey skin and gasping mouth. It was an end Azog should have met with, but he realises that Thorin’s curse had come true and they had put an end to Azog’s bloodline. 

“Bilbo,” Freddy whispers and approaches him. He drops the gun to take Kenny’s hand while Freddy holds him up against his knees holding him in a loose hug. 

“It’s not so bad,” he laughs breathlessly and looks down. His jacket had been left when Ori fell and so he only had a light burgundy coat that was now saturated with blood. It is bad, he knows, he can feel it. “I fired two shots so Gandalf will think you are dead.” He admits and thinks Thorin would be proud of him protecting his nephews as he so desperately tried to do. “The Arkenstone is yours. You know it, in your hearts, remember who you are. Don’t let that monster take the treasure of your house.” 

“Bilbo,” Kenny cries desperately with tears streaming down his face. 

“It’s okay…it’s okay.” He tries to calm them both, patting their hands. You either die a hero or live long enough to become the villain, at least now he was finally the hero of his own story. 

“Please don’t go.” Freddy whispers pressing kisses against his temple. He wished he had had a son. 

He clutches Freddy closer in panic as he hears footsteps approaching the tunnel. “He’s coming back!” He gasps petrified for them. 

“It’s okay Bilbo,” Kenny eases, rubbing his back. 

His teeth chatter as he feels cold. “Can’t you hear him?” He asks panicked and catches the look of concern they both share. “This is your mountain, don’t let them take it from you.” He looks towards the entrance as the footsteps approach without the tell-tale sign of wood tapping against rock. He tries to sit up but his health is rapidly declining and the boys huddle around him trying to calm him. The footsteps draw nearer and there is something familiar in the crease of leather and the soft chime of chainmail and the tap of a sword against a muscular thigh. 

“Bilbo? Bilbo please,” Kenny begs patting his cheek. He’s so cold and numb he can barely feel the touch. The boys hold him closer as if they could heal him with their love but he looks beyond Kenny’s shoulder to the entrance of the cave where Thorin stands. 

“My moon,” he whispers with a smile and holds out his hand before darkness falls. There he floats in the inky black nothingness until a warm hand closes over his own and pulls him from the murky depths and into a loving embrace. 

He feels as if he has awoken from a deep sleep, disorientated but rejuvenated. Everything is the same but much has changed. His presses his head against the chest of his beloved and hears the steady beat of his heart while his nose is filled with the scent of leather, fire and something uniquely Thorin. 

“At last, my stars.” Arms that he was wrest from hold him tighter and in return he tightens his hold. 

Heart-wrenching sobs capture his attention and he turns seeing the two princes’ different but very much the same bowed over the deceased body that had contained his spirit but not his soul. It is a sorry sight but he does not regret his actions. He leaves Thorin’s embrace unsure how to console them and watches Thorin look over his nephews like the proud uncle he was. 

“We’ll be reunited soon.” He nods. The boys had a second chance at life and he did not begrudge them. Thorin had always been his life, his quest, his saviour and without him he hadn’t been living only existing, waiting for the day his king would return. 

“What now?” He asks. 

“Eternity awaits,” Thorin whispers and holds up his hand. He approaches him then and lifts his right hand and palm to palm they circle one another, each captivated by the others eyes. As they turn his heart is full and he feels himself float until there is nothing else only Thorin and a lifetime of love that was denied to them.


	27. Chapter 27

TRADEGY AT AORAKI MOUNT COOK NATIONAL PARK

The archaeological world today mourns the passing of Dr Gandalf Grey aged 73. The famed archaeologist was taking a short sabbatical in Mount Cook National Park where his body was discovered in the early hours of Thursday morning. It is still unclear how long his body had been there but police are not treating his death as suspicious. Dr Grey was survived by no children and his esteemed colleague and protégé Mr Bilbo Baggins was unavailable for comment. 

The Daily News- 26th January 2017 

 

THE ARKENSTONE

Two brothers hailing from Oxford, England have claimed to have found the mythical jewel. Frederick and Kevin Dalton who both study Archaeology at Oxford university were found frostbitten and starved staggering around the village in Mount Cook National Park. Authorities believe that they had become trapped on Mount Cook when the trail became impassable. Both men have subsequently been taken to hospital for treatment while the stone has been sent to be evaluated. If this is the fabled jewel of King Thror it is estimated to be in excess of $500 million. 

NZ Weekly- 6th February 2017 

 

LOST KINGDOM FOUND 

It is a tale as old as time, a kingdom rich in gold but lost to time. Speculation has always run rampant in regards to Erebor. Some claim it is too fantastical to be real while others have always believed. Naysayers were silenced last month when the Arkenstone was recovered, identified, evaluated and sold for $1 billion to a private buyer who wished to remain anonymous. The finders of the gem, Frederick and Kevin Dalton who had been admitted to Christchurch hospital for injuries relating to exposure have since fully recovered and promised to reveal the lost kingdom. 

Some scholars are claiming this as a hoax given the date while The New Zealand Archaeological Association have condemned the comments claiming them to be “outrageous” and “baseless.” They had no comment in regards to the recovery of the Arkenstone. 

The Archaeologist- 1st April 2017 

 

WAR OF WORDS

DAY 119 of Daltons v New Zealand Heritage and both parties are at a stalemate. Frederick and Kevin Dalton made the headlines earlier this year by discovering the Arkenstone, a famed jewel that reached $1 billion in auction making it the most expensive jewel on earth. The brothers from Oxford claimed to know the location of the lost kingdom of Erebor but have since been met with lawsuits and injunctions from New Zealand Heritage, National Trust, New Zealand Archaeological Association and Mount Cook National Park. 

Outside the courthouse Kevin Dalton claimed the trial was not only a “travesty” but a “conspiracy.” He went on to promise to fight as long as he had to as “his friends were in the mountain” and that “justice will be served.” 

New Zealand Heritage have requested a phycological evaluation on both claimants and have called the brothers “charlatans.” 

ITVNews.com- 29th July 2017 

 

V DAY FOR THE DALTONS 

It was truly a case of David and Goliath in the court room. After a long and bitter rivalry, the court granted Frederick and Kevin Dalton permission to explore Mount Cook. Archaeologists from all around the globe have put their names forward to be on the first team. Some even claiming they believed that Mount Cook and Erebor were one and the same but their requests to explore were declined and none had the funds to fight them in court. 

A jubilant Kevin Dalton was heard shouting “now they’ll know” and was later seen toasting to Bilbo Baggins, a famed archaeologist who he claimed was a part of their team. Mr Baggins was unavailable for comment and has since been marked as missing. 

The New Zealand Heritage had no comments. 

Yahoo.com- 25th September 2017 

 

A NEW LOW FROM UP HIGH

Today the world of archaeology was shaken by news emanating from Christchurch New Zealand. The lost kingdom of Erebor has been found but what was to be an historic day was dampened by the recovery of seven bodies. Coroners have identified six of the seven bodies as Balin Fundin 87, an historian best known for his work The Gundabad Chronicles. Famed archaeologist, Bilbo Baggins 50, Bofur Jameson 44, Nori Smith 44, Dori Smith 54, and Ori Smith 19. Their deaths are being treated as homicide and the excavation has been postponed pending inquiry. 

Archaeology Today- 7th October 2017 

 

THE LAST GOODBYE

Mourners today gathered outside Heathrow airport to welcome home the victims of the Erebor massacre. Balin Fundin 87, Bilbo Baggins 50, Dori Smith 54, Nori Smith 44, Ori Smith 19 and Bofur Jameson 44 were a part of a nine-man excavation team spearheaded by Dr Gandalf Grey who had discovered the lost kingdom. Dr Grey’s body was discovered earlier this year at the bottom of Mount Cook after his rope caught on a rock and frayed. His death was ruled as accidental due to improper care of equipment. 

Accompanying the bodies on their journey home were the only two survivors of the doomed mission, Frederick and Kevin Dalton. The brothers made headlines last month winning a landmark case against New Zealand Heritage over the right for an archaeological exploration of Mount Cook.

The two men were both found earlier this year disorientated and suffering from exposure. They had been treated at Christchurch hospital and later committed under the mental health act. After a campaign for their release went viral the British Embassy eventually intervened on the brother’s behalf securing their freedom. 

What should have been a day of celebration was marred by a litany of injunctions and lawsuits from The New Zealand Heritage, National Trust, New Zealand Archaeological Association and Mount Cook National Park. One of the lawsuits was filed for theft of property regarding the Arkenstone, a jewel found in their possession and was later sold for a staggering $1billion. The case was later dismissed as the defendants refused to address the existence of Erebor and therefore could not establish the stone’s origin. 

In what was an unprecedented and costly court battle, the claims against the Dalton’s were dismissed while they had won the right to search Mount Cook. Throughout the hearing the brothers had always maintained their story of a nine-man excavation team that were murdered by a secret cult. The authorities are now looking into the Daltons’ claims. 

Frederick and Kevin Dalton both gave a candid interview on This Morning speaking of the events and admitted that Mr Baggins died so that they may live. The Daltons moved to have Mr Bilbo Baggins lie in state beside King Thorin II but the motion was denied by the supreme court. 

All six bodies will be transported to their respective villages and laid to rest.

The Sun- 6th November 2017 

 

BROTHERHOOD OF AZOG

Another arrest was made today in connection to the Erebor slayings that claimed six lives and the life of the assailant Bolg Greeson 34. Dante Maximus 41 was a columnist for New Zealand Today and a member of the Brotherhood of Azog, a cult that originated sometime in the early 1000s to protect the secret of the tomb. Records show that Mr Maximus contacted Dr Gandalf Grey on multiple occasions and allegations were made by the Dalton brothers that Gandalf was in collusion with the Brotherhood of Azog, and not only orchestrated the murders but partook as well.

Maximus’ arrest now brings the total to twelve, three of which were judges, one of which held a seat in the Supreme Court. Several others of high-ranking positions have been taken in for questioning with charges pending. 

In his book ‘The Secret of the Tomb’ published posthumously, Balin Fundin reveals the truth about the ‘Mad King’ and a thousand-year-old conspiracy to cover his murder. Mr Fundin lost his life during the expedition of Erebor but his work was recovered by his colleagues Frederick and Kevin Dalton and subsequently published. His most famous work, The Gundabad Chronicles was also re-published with the fourteenth chapter which was originally omitted and dedicated to the brothers, Ori, Nori and Dori Smith who also lost their lives during the expedition. 

For the murder of both Ori Smith and Balin Fundin, Dr Gandalf Grey was stripped of his honours and his body has since been exhumed and moved to an undisclosed location due to vandalism. A charity that was set up in his name has since been closed and funds were transferred to the Fundin Smith Project. 

Police are now searching for Mr Thranduil Greenleaf in connection to Gandalf’s crimes. Mr Greenleaf had made the news in England last year for his involvement in the Haiti Incident and later for gross misconduct and abuse of power due to an affair with a mature student before leaving the country. As of yet, there have been no leads in regards to Mr Greenleaf’s whereabouts and the police are considering his status as missing. 

New Zealand Herald- 27th December 2017

 

SPOOKTACULAR LOCATIONS THIS HALLOWEEN 

Looking for things that go bump in the night? Then look no further, our list of spinetingling destinations are just what the witch doctor ordered;

1\. The Museum of New Zealand  
Stay awhile, learn something new but I warn you when the lights go out the museum comes alive. Don’t believe us? Take a stroll down the seven kingdoms artefacts, see those two rings hanging together? You shouldn’t. Once upon a time those rings were separated but each morning the curator would come in and find them together. No matter where the rings were located they always found one another. Psychics believe that a piece of the wearer’s souls were intertwined with the ring upon their ghastly deaths. Hear the distant sound of fiddlers? You shouldn’t. There are no fiddles in the museum. Still feeling brave? Well then climb aboard the ghost train for our next location.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I began writing this last year for a Halloween challenge so thank you for bearing with me for all this time. Your comments have meant the world to me. I didn't imagine this story would be as well received as it has been given I killed most of the cast. 
> 
> I'm really bad at replying to comments but the story is complete now, so if you have any questions I'll happily answer them. 
> 
> PS. The secret buyer was Frerin, the lush done good in his next life. He paid over the odds because he could afford to, the Arkenstone was his (Thorin was cursed in this life and the next, his soul was compromised, he couldn't come back.) Also he felt bad because he felt responsible for all their deaths, believing it was his drunken behaviour that got everyone killed.
> 
> PPS. Did Gandalf's rope catch on the rock or was it cut? The answer is, it was cut by the lads. Spurred on by Bilbo's words about the Arkenstone, they confronted Gandalf taking the Arkenstone and both rings and then pushed him to his death cutting the rope on the rock to make it look like an accident.


End file.
